


Typhoon

by SuuriSakara



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Brotherly Love, Death, Drama, Extended Flashbacks, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Organized Crime, Past Child Abuse, Substance Abuse, Turtlecest, smut starts in chapter 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuuriSakara/pseuds/SuuriSakara
Summary: Maybe it was his demeanor, that dash of cocky confidence mixed in with humility and naiveté? More likely, I thought, a decade-plus of repressed wants and needs were finally bubbling beyond the point I could control them, and they just happened to reach a breaking point as this mystery man came into town. Bad timing on his part, I scoffed internally.---Raphael has finally eked out a stable existence for himself and his little brother. Strangers move into the city, and all that stability gets thrown into a storm of chaos.





	1. Chapter 1

            All the self-help bullshit that Van Leer used to throw at me always emphasized the importance of routine in building a stable, fulfilling life. Those authors seemed like a bunch of snake oil salesmen when I was a teen, and finding myself increasingly locked into a routine as an adult, it felt like I was proven more correct each and every day. Wake up, make coffee, get on the subway, go to work. Get bossed around by Casey, as if the fucking bonehead knew anything more about running a garage than I did. Fix up imported cars for the upper-crusts, while dreaming about how much more money would be in my pocket if I had a dad who was buddy-buddy with the rich types from his days as a hockey star. Eat a bagged lunch, work some more. Call up Mike, make sure the little shit made it home or to work, and was doing his homework. Worry when he was blatantly lying, and I could make out the sounds of the skate park or the basketball court in the background. More work. Take the subway home, cook dinner, eat, have a few drinks. Pass out on the couch, wake up to some late-night infomercials blaring at me, desperately trying to sell me on a fucking blanket with sleeves, or a blender that could chop a diamond in half. Drag myself to the bedroom and get a few more hours of sleep. Smash the alarm clock, and repeat.

            As you can imagine, life sucked. After the shitstorm I’d endured for the first twenty-three years of my life, you’d think monotony would be a welcome change. Nope. The only benefit of the utter swamp of boredom that had become my life was a regular paycheck, and even that practically disappeared as soon as rent and bills were due. After a while, though, I started to get smart about my spending: store brand groceries, Everclear instead of whiskey, no nights out at the bar, and so on. It made me feel like a fucking monk, but once I felt like treating myself wouldn’t throw my whole financial situation into total ruin, I bought a motorcycle. Nothing fancy, of course: an old Kawasaki cruiser, a modest little 650cc, barely running when I found it. With Casey’s okay, I stashed it in a far corner of the garage, and socked away a little bit of cash from each week’s pay to blow on parts for about six months. I started leaving Mike money for takeout, so I could stay at the garage and toy around with it. Eventually, it had more new parts than stock; with the gas tank and each body panel in a different color, I’d decided to Plasti-Dip every piece flat black, for a real stealth bomber look. When the deed was done, I sprung for a jacket, helmet, gloves, chaps, and boots, all in black to match. I hate to toot my own horn, but the whole setup looked pretty fucking badass when everything got put together.

            Finally, when all my disposable income had gone up in smoke, and I was barely able to scrape enough together for Mike’s tuition payments, I finally realized how much of an idiot I was. Where the fuck does one go to shred some rubber and go for a long cruise when you live in the goddamn Big Apple? There’s never a time that the roads are clear of traffic. If I didn’t pick up weekend shifts more than half the time, and didn’t have a little brother to keep tabs on, I guess I could have gone upstate, or out to Long Island, or somewhere. Anywhere would have been nice; it didn’t matter where, so long as traffic was going above sixty and there was room to split lanes. But free time and open roads never seemed to be in the cards for me, so my pride and joy became a glorified bicycle to get to and from work. When I realized how much of a damned fool I was to have wasted my cash like that, for some reason, another wise word from Van Leer wormed its way between my ears: exercise mellows a man out, doesn’t cost much, and probably won’t kill him either. A gym membership wouldn’t break the bank terribly, and seemed like less guilty of a pleasure than dumping even more money into a bike.

            I wouldn’t say I’d gotten fat over the years; sure, my diet was shit in terms of quality, but the quantity of food I was eating spoke more about my bank account than my appetite. My whole life, I’ve been naturally on the husky side, but if I sucked in hard enough, I could vaguely make out where my abs were hiding. My chest, arms, and legs, though, still rippled with muscles like steel cables on the Triboro Bridge. Riding to work one day, I saw signs for a new YMCA branch opening right on 96th Street, and figured it was fate; unlike all the Cross-Fit bullshit and corporate gym chains, the Y scaled membership costs to the size of your paycheck, so thankfully Mike and I could get in for peanuts. He barely ever came with me, though; all his friends played ball at the playground a few blocks away, so he had no business tagging along unless it was raining or snowing out. It didn’t bother me, though: working out cleared my head the same way I imagined a late-night cruise on an open country highway would. Just me, my headphones, some cold iron, and the screaming, sizzling pain in my muscles. There was an area near the weight room with boxing gear, and while it had been a few years since I’d gotten in a proper fight, I quickly found I could wail on a speedbag with the same ferocity I did on goons’ heads at seventeen.

            About six months into my membership, they finished installing a genuine boxing ring. Obviously, the rules for using it were a hell of a lot cleaner than how I’d learned to fight, but after a few stern lectures from the staff, I got in the swing of it, and established myself as a menace between the ropes. Guys who thought they were hot shit would come in looking smug, and leave looking like meatballs. After a certain point, all the regulars knew to stay away, and I’d have to promise to go easy on them if I wanted an opponent that wasn’t wrapped in leather and filled with sand. Even though the place straddled two different neighborhoods, all the people I sparred with and lifted with were the same few dozen guys from East Harlem, faces I’d seen out walking while I was smoking out on the balcony or riding around the block. The Yorkville crowd, if they even exercised, must have had private gyms in their condos or high-rises, because everyone at the Y walked and talked like they were as poor as me. Hell, half of them either didn’t speak English, or took one look at me and decided I must have spoke Spanish too. Not a bad guess on their part; my dad was apparently Dominican, and I definitely got his caramel skin and wavy black hair, but I only knew that from old pictures. Not that it mattered how fluent I was; I preferred to let my fists do the talking, and the usual lot there was as content with that as I was.

            One late night in early April, right before I was about to pack up and head home, a new face showed up in the boxing room. While I didn’t usually pay rookies too much attention, this guy seemed to silently demand it. Black tights with blue piping under navy shorts, a tight black tank top, and all-black Yeezys with the lettering in the same shade of dark blue. I don’t know half as much about kicks as Mike does, but I could tell those were custom, and even stock, they cost as much as a month of my rent. Buzzed black hair, just beginning to curl, with a cerulean bandana pushing it back. Lean and well-muscled, like a jaguar. Skin the same hue and smoothness as a Hershey bar, narrow eyes of ocean blue sitting atop high, prominent cheekbones, and thick, pillowy lips pursed into an expression of disinterested neutrality while he scanned the room slowly. He stood out from the laid-back casualness of the room, looking clean, serious, and fearless. It was so different from the usual air of a newbie, thinking they could waltz in and pummel anyone who looked at them. This man _knew_ what he was doing; I could tell just from watching him tape up his wrists that he had serious experience. Finally, someone interesting.

            “Wanna spar?” I asked, tapping my scarlet leather gloves together for emphasis. He eyed me up and down, sizing me up like a cut of steak.

            “Sure.” His eyes narrowed slightly further while he slid a blue set of gloves on, some inkling of a grin crawling across his face as he followed me toward the ring. He didn’t have a New York accent, at least not a lower-to-middle class one; it was measured and articulated, like an English teacher. Out-of-towner, maybe? I held the ropes down for him to cross over, shooting him a smirk of my own as I did.

            “Three rounds.” I announced, half to him and half to the staff sitting at the table off to the side. “Three minutes each, house rules.”

            “House rules?” He cocked an eyebrow.

            “Points per hit, don’t matter where it lands. No rabbit-punches, kidney shots, spine shots, or dick shots. No grappling. Ten-second count. And if you bleed, you gotta mop up the whole ring after.” When he gave a curt nod in response, the man at the table struck his bell, and we squared up in the center of the ring before taking our steps back.

            This guy did _not_ move like a boxer. He was shifty, but not in that ‘float like a butterfly’, light-on-his-feet kind of way. I threw the first punch, a strong right straight to his face, but he had snaked his way to my left before I had time to adjust my aim and delivered two blows of his own directly to my solar plexus. He was a fucking viper, wasting no energy dancing around, but in a different position every time my fists left their guarding position. I tossed a low left hook, and he pushed it aside with one glove while knocking my chin skyward with the other. I don’t think I saw either of his hands stay still for more than a fraction of a second. A few punches of mine landed square, but the vast majority of those that actually made contact with him just slid right off, and for every one I fired his way, two or three came right back at me. For the first time since I started coming to this place, I was losing ground, and by the time the first bell dinged, I had spent probably a whole minute holed up in the corner of the ropes, trying my best to block the flurry that he was pelting me with.

            “You been doing this a while?” I panted, taking a long gulp from my water bottle before setting it down outside the ring.

            “Fighting? My whole life.” He stated flatly, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. “Boxing, in particular? Never.”

            The bell rang again, and we were back in the middle. I reevaluated my strategy, not focusing so much on landing many hits as I did hard, low hits. I figured if I could knock some wind out of him, he might get a little sloppier. It didn’t pan out; the few shots I could get in at the guy’s gut felt like punching a brick wall, and he didn’t so much as take a step backward. Blocking his assault was a paradox; if I protected my face, he was all over my abdomen in a heartbeat, and vis versa. A couple of his hooks twisted my head so far around, I could hear my neck crack, but I knew if I didn’t snap right back, he’d leave me looking like hamburger in a second. As the time ran up, I landed one strong shot smack dab in his mouth, but he didn’t even change his facial expression from the same amused smile he wore when we walked into the ring. This guy knew how to get on my nerves like nobody else. I took a couple steps back, and drew a deep breath in as I charged forward, preparing to crash into him with my whole weight. Just then, the bell dinged, and as I pulled my fists back, he neatly stepped to the side, sending me stumbling clumsily until I had to catch myself on the ropes.

            His laugh was sweet and decadent, like honey, and it left me grinding my teeth as the final round began. Back to the center we danced, and for what could be the billionth time in my life, I let my anger get the best of me as it swelled up and clouded my judgement. I became a tornado of punches, not letting up from my offensive for even a heartbeat, disregarding when he pushed aside nine throws out of ten and landed several swift jabs of his own. The contact of his gloves on my body didn’t even register: I’d already lost two rounds of three, so to gain some feeling of victory, I either needed to draw blood or see his face on the mat. My breaths became ragged as I tried to pick up the pace even further, finally succeeding in making him lose some ground and take a few careful steps back. This was my chance; his fists were up shielding his face, leaving his ribs exposed on either side. Winding up my right arm as far back as I could, I was just about to let loose and lay into my target. Without warning, a glove made contact with my temple, bearing such force that I went spinning just as my vision went dark. The room disappeared briefly, and when I blinked my eyes back open, the sound of my own heart beating receded just in time for me to make out the staff calling “Eight…Nine…Ten!” before dinging the bell. I’d either been hustled, or seriously lost my touch in a week’s time.

            The handful of regulars who stood around to spectate cheered and offered some meager applause, as the next pair laced up their gloves and took position to come in.

            “And the winner, by knockout, is…” a voice announced from the side table.

            “Ain’t gotta say it, Frankie.” I growled from behind grated teeth, cutting him off to save myself the shame. “Guess I’m hangin’ up the belt.”

            “Hey.” The velvety voice called out, and I turned my head upward to see his blue-wrapped hand reaching out to help me up. “You’re pretty good.”

            “Yeah, right.” I snarled, brushing his hand aside and peeling myself off the mat. “Thought you said you never done this before?”

            “I’ve been training in martial arts practically since I could walk.” He explained, following me as I stepped out of the ring. “I guess the same principles carry over to boxing.”

            “Guess so.” I snatched my water bottle off the ground and squeezed the last of its contents down my throat. “What’s your game, BJJ? Muay Thai?”

            “A little bit of everything, really. Mostly kenpo and jujutsu. Actually, I’m about to start teaching a tai chi class here soon.”

            “Tai chi?” I scoffed, trudging toward the locker room and eyeing the stranger warily as he seemed to follow. “You’re a real Tiger Chen, if that’s what you’re into. Figured ninety percent of that bullshit was for old geezers and pregnant ladies.”

            “Heh.” He chuckled. “I don’t teach what he does in the movies, but it could be useful if you want to freshen up your routine. Or if you’re just looking to relax. Where did you learn to fight?”

            “Lived with an ex-army guy for a while who taught me the basics, but by then, I’d already picked up most of what I know from P.S. 57.” I spun open the combination lock and creaked the little metal door open, pulling my towel out and rustling my hair to shake the sweat out.

            “P.S. 57…” He seemed to mull it over. “What kind of dojo is that?”

            “It’s a middle school.” I deadpanned, and pulled my towel back to watch him react with blatant shock. “Twenty blocks uptown. Ain’t from around here, huh?”

            “Just came into town a couple weeks ago.” He opened his locker and peeled off his headband and tank top, revealing the taut, fibrous muscles of his chest and abdomen in even greater detail than I could make out through the thin fabric. There wasn’t a hair on him anywhere below his neckline; nothing but smooth mahogany skin, glistening with sweat.

            “Wish I could say the same.” I muttered, pulling my t-shirt up over my head and chucking it unceremoniously into my gym bag. “Don’t think I’ve ever spent more than a week outside the Boroughs.”

            “Nothing wrong with having one place to call home.” He mused before stepping carefully out of his gym shorts, now clad in nothing but the showy fabric of his leggings. Previously hidden beneath the shorts, his thighs stretched the black lycra enough that I could make out each cord of muscle rippling as he lifted his feet to remove his shoes. “I’ve never stayed put long enough to do the same. Tokyo, Vancouver, Sao Paulo, London, Singapore…and now New York, I guess.”

            “Jesus, are you in the travelling circus or something?” I laughed, tossing my shorts into the locker and stealing another glance at the man beside me while he fiddled with his laces. He stood a couple inches taller than me, but definitely looked to weigh less than I did; there didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him, and while he wasn’t jacked out of his mind, he seemed built like a swimmer or a gymnast. Honestly, I’d believe it if he said he _was_ a circus freak. I could see him walking a tightrope or swinging himself through rings of fire, the same confident gaze on his face as he wore in the ring, as if he didn’t even comprehend the concept of fear.

            “If only.” He smiled more warmly now, mirth shining in his impossibly deep blue eyes as he cast a glance my way. Despite still being guarded by the clingy crimson fabric of my boxer briefs, his look made me feel naked, more vulnerable than I could recall feeling in years. “Family business. My cousin just took over the US branch of the company, so I’m here as her…assistant, I guess.”

            “Must be some hell of a business, if you’re wearing shoes like _that_ to a gym like _this_.” I nodded towards his Yeezys as he put them on the top shelf of the locker, while I did the same with my worn pair of New Balances. “Little tip: don’t let the kids up at the basketball court see you come in wearing those. I know at least one of them got bolt cutters.”

            “These?” he picked one of the sneakers back up, carefully examining it as if it might be venomous. “They were a gift. You really think they’d break into a locker for them?”

            “They’re worth more than half those kids’ parents make in a month.”

            “Seriously?” He looked incredulous. “I didn’t even realize…”

            “Yeah, yeah.” I cut him off. “New in town, I get it. But no matter what neighborhood the maps say this place is in, it’s East Harlem kids that come here. You Yorkville types usually don’t come this far uptown.”

            “Yorkville?” he asked curiously.

            “What street you live on?”

            “80th.”

            “That’s Yorkville. The place I work at ain’t too far from you. Smack dab in the middle of one of New York’s ritziest Zip Codes. Once you cross 96th Street, you’re in my turf: East Harlem, the murder capital of Manhattan. It’s like walking from Norway into Nicaragua.”

            “I see…” He paused thoughtfully, sliding his shoes back into their cubby and stripping out of his tights before gently shutting the door and clicking the lock shut, his towel tossed over his shoulder. “I have…other shoes I can wear next time.”

            “Smart.” I made a careful effort not to look straight at him while he was in the buff, hoping he’d offer me the same dignity as I stripped down.

            “Anyways, that tai chi class is Thursdays at eight, starting next week. It’s open entry, so feel free to drop by if you’re interested. If not, I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He started to saunter over to the showers, and my eyes gravitated toward the tight glutes bobbing up and down with each step. His head swiveled back to look over his shoulder, and like a statue I froze in place. With a glimmer of knowing pride in his eyes, he added, “Let me know if you want a rematch.”

            “You bet your ass I do.” I scoffed, then glued my eyes to the floor as I internally kicked myself at the poor choice of words.

            “I never got your name.” He stopped in his tracks and turned on his heels, staring straight at me while we were both buck-ass nude. It violated every unspoken code I held about how to conduct myself in locker rooms, but as my gaze compulsively turned at a constant height to meet his, it was clear he was unperturbed.

            “Raph.” I uttered, doing my best to keep my voice from wavering as it felt like I’d suddenly been dropped into a pressure cooker. “Raph Tartaruga.”

            “Hamato Liyongo.” He pressed his hands together and bowed his head toward me, a formality that struck me as even odder than anything else about him. “Call me Leo. Nice to meet you, Raph.”

            “Yep.” I rotated away to pull my towel out, and listened for the soft pats of his footsteps to signal his entry into the shower stalls before slamming my locker shut and resting my head against the cool metal. I had to collect myself for a bit before daring to find my own shower stall, just on the off-chance this Leo guy didn’t understand the etiquette of closing the stall doors, and I’d have to spend another minute involuntarily ogling him. After a minute, I sucked in a deep breath, and marked my way through the vacant area to my own private shower, slinging my towel over the divider and double-checking the latch before letting the steamy drizzle flow.

            Beneath the water, I pretended I didn’t notice my hands shaking as I pumped out a handful of soap and lathered up. There was no reason for me to get so worked up over some random guy; yeah, he looked damn fine, but so did half the guys I worked out with and sparred with every week, and none of them left me with that kind of reaction. Could it be the fact he’d beaten me in the ring? It certainly did distinguish him from the usual rabble. Maybe it was his demeanor, that dash of cocky confidence mixed in with humility and naiveté? More likely, I thought, a decade-plus of repressed wants and needs were finally bubbling beyond the point I could control them, and they just happened to reach a breaking point as this mystery man came into town. Bad timing on his part, I scoffed internally.

 

* * *

 

              _“Raphael, you come downstairs this instant!” Mr. Murphy’s booming voice barked from down the stairs, and all my muscles tensed involuntarily in response. Toying briefly with the idea of ignoring him, I knew from experience that it would only worsen what was bound to come. Trudging down the stairs with my hands stuffed in the back pockets of my khakis, I forced myself to meet his enraged glare, having endured enough bruises and handprints to know he demanded eye contact at all times. He sat in the dining room, chair turned away from the head of the table as his steely blue eyes immediately locked on mine under furrowed brows. The skin of his cheeks was beginning to redden, a bad sign when he had barely begun to yell yet._

_“That was Mrs. Morrissey on the phone. Would you care to take a guess what she saw you doin’ at the park?”_

_“She’s like ninety, sir. How is she supposed to see anything from her window?” Fuck it. I knew what was in store, whether I spoke my mind or not._

_“Gettin’ smart with me, are you, boy?” He seethed, launching up from his seat and towering over me with a snarl. When he moved toward the closet by the stairs, I knew what was expected of me: to unfasten my belt, tug my pants down, and lay my chest across the unforgiving wooden chair. “She saw you gettin’ sweet with that colored girl the other week, and you fessed up to it. You think now that she sees you kiss the O’Connor boy, she’s gone senile?”_

_“You didn’t hurt me for kissing Malia.” I involuntarily let a wince out as I heard him find the long hazel rod and slam the door shit, tightly crunching my eyes closed as he let it crack in his hands. “What’s different now?”_

_“What’s different?” He erupted, hunching forward to position his screaming, spit-flecked lips only inches from my ear. “What’s different is, he’s a BOY!” The wooden sticks whooshed through the air, and I gasped as they bit into the back of my upper thighs. “I let little urchins like yourself into my home, as good Christian charity…” Another sharp sting, this time across the small of my back. I wondered what would draw blood first, the switch, or my desperate attempt to not cry as I sunk my teeth deep into my lip. “…So I’ve got no issue kickin’ a SODOMITE back out on the street! Is that what you want?” The next blow was harder than the last, and my resolve wore out, as a pained shriek forced its way out of my throat. “To be back in the orphanage, while we keep your brother here and see if he’s any easier to correct?”_

_“NO!” I wailed, mustering up the courage to peer back and face him with tears staining my cheeks. “If I’m going anywhere, Mikey’s coming with me!”_

_“Fat chance, lad.” He wound his arm back high above his head, and the cry that burst from between my teeth as the rod landed sounded more animal than human. “Hangin' around a pansy of an older brother isn’t gonna help him any.”_

_I had no control over what happened next. On reflex alone, my fist curled around the switch just as it landed square in the middle of my ass, and I wrenched it from his grip. Pushing myself off the chair with my free hand, I turned to face him, and snapped the damned stick over my knee. The ends now jagged with splinters, I pushed them toward his throat, and he didn’t falter for a moment as he watched with equal parts incredulity and rage. For what felt like a lifetime, we stood in a deadlock, his arms crossed across his chest, mine barely pricking his Adam’s apple with the busted rod._

_“You’re NOT taking him away from me!” I panted, internally recoiling at how juvenile I sounded with snot clogging my nose. “He’s all I’ve got!” Mr. Murphy’s curious expression shifted to a malicious grin as he clicked his tongue at me._

_“That’s it, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “You act all tough, rebel against even the most basic of rules, and now I finally understand why.” His voice dropped to a blood-curdling growl. “You think it’ll throw folks off your trail, make ‘em think you’re not a faggot, right? Bet you don’t want little Michael to know either, huh? Scared he won’t follow you around like a puppy anymore if he knows his big brother’s a bugger?”_

_“Bullshit!” I roared, pulling the sticks back to prepare for cutting his fucking throat, ready to watch the blood pour out on the linoleum, and walk out of that godforsaken house for the last time, with Mike in tow. He batted my weapons away with an amused scoff, wound his fist back, and launched a blow directly into my eye socket. I literally flew from my feet, twisting around in mid-air and landing face-down on the floor, limp as a ragdoll. Everything faded from my mind; my boiling rage, the pain in my face and all across my backside, his continued taunts and insults over my head, everything. I took solace in being momentarily free from it all._

 

* * *

 

            I turned the knob all the way to the right, and watched the last few drops trickle from the showerhead. Holding my breath for a moment, I was relieved to hear absolutely nothing from the showers or the locker room. Other voices had come and gone while I lingered under the water, and thankfully, the place seemed totally deserted. Thoughts still not entirely focused on the present, I seemed to float through the locker room and up to street level, half-heartedly giving the ladies at the reception desk a wave before exiting and finding my bike. The old girl puttered to life, and I slid my helmet on as I coasted out into the street.

            My apartment was unremarkable, which tends to be a good thing in New York. It’s a city of half glittering, spacious penthouses, like I imagined that Leo character must have lived in, and half run-down, mold-infested tenements like Mike and I drifted between for a good chunk of our childhoods. My digs on 108th Street were safe, structurally sound, less than $3k a month, and in on a block where I wasn’t overly worried about the kid getting shot, which was just about all I could ask for. What’s more, the place was decently close to work, and even closer to the gym. Traffic wasn’t horrible that night, and I made it into my garage stall in less than ten minutes’ time.

            “Smells like pizza in here.” I hollered as I came in, setting my helmet atop the coatrack. “You better have saved me some this time.”

            The place was dark, except for the cool flickering light of the television radiating around the corner from the living room. No one responded to my entrance, aside from the too-loud, rapid din of announcers commentating a basketball game. As I peeked my head through the archway, I saw Mike sprawled out on the couch, eyes shut, mouth agape and framed with tomato sauce, with his wavy auburn locks hanging messily over the edge of the threadbare cushions. On his legs sat Klunk, the tranquil little ball of orange and white fur snoozing as peacefully as his owner. His basketball shorts were tugged down so far beyond his waistline, he may as well have been wearing just the plain white briefs underneath them, and one hand clutched a half-eaten slice of pizza on his chest, while the other pointed limply down toward the box on the floor, where three more sat untouched. For an eighteen-year old, he certainly lived like an eight-year-old would if they were left unsupervised most of the day.

            “Living the high life.” I chuckled to myself, tiptoeing in front of the TV as I expertly yanked the cardboard box out from under his hand and brought it into the kitchen. Whenever it was he’d made it home from his after-school delivery gig, he’d remembered to bring the mail in, which was a rare occurrence. Flopping down into one of the chairs, I rifled through the envelopes on the table while taking a bite of the lukewarm pizza. Cable bill, water bill, and two letters from Saint Thomas Aquinas High School. One, a tuition bill, no doubt, and the other probably asking for donations or some bullshit. Leaning back in my chair, I reached for the drawer at the edge of the counter where I kept my checkbook. It felt like every damn day, I had to take the thing out for something or other. I guess that’s what adulthood is all about.

            My checking account was several hundreds lighter when the final buzzer screamed from the game on the screen, and as if it was an alarm clock, Mike’s head sprang up from the couch.

            “Knicks lost.” He grumbled, licking his lips and blinking the crust out of his eyes. He tipped his head over the edge of the couch to look back into the kitchen, big orbs of baby blue framed by bloodshot white peering at me expectantly.

            “Course they did.” I took a final bite of the last slice’s crust, shaking my head at him. “Haven’t made the playoffs in five years. They’re bums.”

            “Porzin-God, bro.” He scratched at the ruff of Klunk’s neck, signaling it was finally time to peel himself off the cushions. “Next season, we’re going all the way for sure.”

            “Hasn’t happened since before they invented the three-pointer, numbskull. I told you: bums.”

            “You’re a bum.” He kicked himself off the couch, wavering as he caught his balance standing upright.

            “Says the kid with pizza sauce all over his face.” I smirked, watching as he slowly registered my comment and wiped his freckled cheeks against his forearm. “You mind putting the rest in the fridge before you go catatonic next time? Food poisoning’s the last thing I need, when I already gotta stomach looking at you every day.”

            “Nauseous with envy at this killer bod.” He beamed, planting his hands at his hips and sucking in the tiny bit of pudge hanging out over his waistband. Tiny patch of dark orange hair budding between his pecs and trailing down into his shorts aside, he still looked the puberty fairy had passed him over. Even if he sprouted a few more inches and closed the height gap between us, his round cheeks and pale complexion made it look more like he belonged on a jar of baby food than shoulder-deep in an engine bay or pumping iron at the gym. Maybe it was a mix of paternal and brotherly instinct clouding my judgement, but to me, he was just an overgrown kid. My kid.

            “You better get some rest, bro. I think you’re starting to hallucinate.”

            “Right back at you, Raphie-Taffy.” He stretched a hand up to the ceiling and let out a dramatic yawn while he dragged his feet toward his bedroom, Klunk close behind his heels. “You sure could use the beauty sleep more than me.”

            “If you don’t wash the grease off your face before you hit the sack, you’re gonna be kicking yourself for saying that in the morning.” I nagged, and he redirected his lazy exodus toward the bathroom. “Ain’t springing for that fancy face scrub shit again.”

            “Will do, _mom_.” He scoffed, slamming the door behind him with his foot. He called me that whenever I showed any kind of doting or parental instinct to him, and while I knew he meant it in a lighthearted way, I could never shake the feeling it was somewhat irreverent. Not that irreverence was anything outside the norm for Michelangelo Tartaruga, but the word always struck me the wrong way. Did he remember Mom at all? Or was I really the parent in his mind?

 

* * *

 

_“It still looks really bad, Raphie.” Mike stared over at me from across the room, eyes huge and watery with panic through the dim light._

_“Yeah, it feels pretty bad, too.” I grumbled, pressing the bag of half-frozen peas back up to my eye and rolling back over to stare up at the ceiling. Ordinarily, I made a deliberate effort not to show him just how much I hurt, to ease his mind. This time, though, I didn’t have the will or the energy to keep that charade up. That asshole Murphy had wailed on me for the last time, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t quite piece together how I was supposed to make that a reality yet._

_“What were you getting punished for?” He murmured._

_“Nothing, Mikey, okay?” I shot him a menacing glare, and he seemed to shrink even further into his bedsheets. “I just…look, it’s not important. What matters is, we gotta get out of here.”_

_“You mean, like, right now?”_

_“Not right now. Not tonight, maybe not even this week. But we can’t stay here. I’m not gonna let him do to you what he did to me.”_

_“Where are we gonna go?”_

_“I’m not sure yet, buddy. We could call up Ms. Taylor, tell her what happened, and have her put us in another home.”_

_“What if those people are mean too?” Even at seven, Mike seemed stuck in that toddler-like phase of incessantly asking questions. It got on my nerves all the damn time, but I couldn’t snap at him today. I refused to take the energy Mr. Murphy had thrown at me and inflict it upon the one person I cared about._

_“Knowing our luck, they probably will be.” I admitted. “But we gotta try it. If not, we’re out on the street. Either way, it’s better than here, right?”_

_He didn’t answer my question. For a few minutes, the fear and tension lingered in the air, neither of us moving or speaking. Then, of course, another question._

_“Raphie?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“Can I sleep with you?”_

_I craned my neck up to stare at the clock on the wall. It read 1:37AM; both Murphy’s were sure to be asleep at this time on a weeknight. I’d snuck out enough times already to know they were both in bed by midnight, and Mister woke up at six if he hadn’t been drinking the night before._

_“Sure, buddy. Just gotta go back to your bed by sun-up.”_

_In a flash, his bare feet padded across the scratched-up wooden floor, and the springs of my mattress creaked to accommodate the additional weight. He shimmied his way underneath the sheets and latched onto me like I was his oversized teddy bear, resting his head right on my shoulder and warming my chest with his breath. I stretched to flick the lamp off and set the peas on the bedside table, laying my arm around him and wrapping him up as snugly as I could._

_Wherever we went from here, we were going together. The rest didn’t matter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, if you read that whole chapter in one go, holy shit bruh you got DEDICATION! This shit is like 3-6x longer than any one chapter I've ever written of ANYTHING. To me, it seems cohesive, and it just flowed out of my noggin like this, but please let me know if the length is too tedious!
> 
> Wanna know what's really wild, though? A month ago, I was all bah-humbug about human AUs. My thought was, if you're gonna change someone's species, you may as well change their names and just write an independent work of damn fiction. Now, I've got a storyboard lined up that could take me over 100k words of human AU! Some of you authors convinced me in short order, congrats!
> 
> A note about tags: they spoil shit. In my opinion, that is. Therefore, I only tag plot elements that exist in the chapters already published, and update them as I do the story. If you're concerned about what's to come, let me tease ya:
> 
> -All four brothers will be at the forefront soon.
> 
> -There will be several more canon characters for sure.
> 
> -There will be 'turtlecest'/'tcest', but not between characters who are related in this AU (sorry cest fans).
> 
> -There will be action, violence, crime, etc.
> 
> -There will be organized crime (it's a hell of a trope in these AU's, innit?)
> 
> -There will be a major character death (don't worry, it's not one of the brothers, I always hated that shit!)
> 
> -Mental illness and drug/alcohol abuse will play a big role in some of the characterization (I have firsthand/family experience with some of it, but do please let me know if I do it wrong/offensively.)
> 
> All that bullshit aside, I am SUPER excited to reveal what I've got in store. Where's Donnie? Who tf is Van Leer, and why do I bring him up? How can Raph afford to send Mike to a private school in NYC, working on a mechanic's salary? Why does Leo have a Japanese surname, but a Swahili first name? Aaahhh y'all ain't even know, it's gonna be awesome, at least I hope it will be!
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading, and don't forget to comment! I feed on your reviews and criticism, it's my nourishment!


	2. Chapter 2

            It took every ounce of strength I had to keep my composure through the afternoon. The phone call at work, the subway ride downtown to the school, nodding and uttering “Yes, sir” or “I understand, sir” a million times to the stiff-lipped principal in his stuffy office, watching Mike sit there with his uniform half-undone and eyes still lit up like strawberries during the whole affair, and walking out of Saint Thomas Aquinas High School for what was, in a bittersweet sense, the last time. Once we made it to the sidewalk, and out of earshot from the classroom windows, I finally stopped biting my tongue.

            “You. Fucking. IDIOT!” I roared, turning to fleck his face with spit, and only getting more enraged at his mellowed, unresponsive expression. “Cutting class to smoke pot? What about that sounds like a smart fucking idea?”

            “Dude.” He objected. “As if you didn’t blaze when you were in school. Hypocrite much?”

            “I didn’t get _caught_ , Mike. Because I didn’t smoke _right behind the fucking cafeteria_! Even Casey knew enough to go to the park and come back. You didn’t see the goddamn security camera pointing right at you?”

            “Byron said he always goes behind the dumpsters, bro. If anything, he should be the one getting expelled. I mean, it was his bud.”

            “Byron didn’t already have two strikes on his record, asshole.” I fumbled around in the breast pocket of my coveralls, fishing out the pack of Camels and my lighter. “I swear to god, kid. I don’t know what goes through your mind.”

            “C’mon, Raph. You know…I just can’t sit still half the time. This is gonna sound stupid, but…”

            “You already sound fucking stupid.” I clicked the lighter, and savored the feeling of my nicotine receptors buzzing in a flash, melting away a fraction of a percent of the stress I was under. “Keep talking.”

            “School’s been fucking tough, dude, since the first day I started there. You’ve seen the report cards. Well, there was an Algebra test in fourth period, and I’m already failing the class, but just barely, so I was like, you know what would help me focus a little more?”

            “A blunt?” I scoffed.

            “See, it sounds stupid! But I swear, dude. That physics project me and Vinnie got an A-minus on? We were both lit the whole time, and I did like ninety percent of the work. Shit chills me out.”

            “Okay.” I took another long drag, letting the smoke linger in my mouth before puffing it out of my nostrils. “Let’s say you’re actually the one guy in a million who gets _smarter_ when he’s stoned. You couldn’t just smoke before class? Or bring an edible? Or get a goddamn medical card and a prescription?”

            “Like you’d spring for a doctor’s appointment to get that.”

            “Now I gotta spring to find you another high school! A third high school! You hear that? I was probably a bigger shithead than you when I was in school, and I made it outta Franklin Pierce in four years. You got kicked outta Pierce in two, then got kicked outta Saint Thomas in one-and-a-half!”

            “I’m sorry, bro.” He hung his head. “You’re right, I’m an idiot. And I wasn’t thinking.”

            “Damn straight you weren’t.” I seethed. “You got any idea how much money I shelled out for your tuition? _Thousands_. That’s three zeroes. You know how many hours you’d have to work at that fucking pizza place to pick up that tab?”

            “Like, years.” He grumbled.

            “Exactly. Fucking _years_. And news flash: I don’t make that much more than you. _Years_ of my time down the drain so you could get a diploma, and you just…you took a shit all over it! All you had to do was not fuck up, for two more goddamn months, and you would have had it! Would have never had to set foot in a classroom again.”

            “I know.” He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I fucked up big time. I’m an asshole.”

            “Understatement of the century.” I sighed. “What kinda school is gonna take a kid with your transcripts, and your permanent record on file? If there is one, I don’t even wanna think about how much it costs.” An awkward silence hung in the air between us, while I sucked down a few more drags, posting up at the intersection until the light changed.

            “We could ask Doctor V.” He finally offered as we crossed. If my blood wasn’t already boiling, those words straight up _vaporized_ it. “He might know what to do.”

            “What makes you think I could even get in contact with Van Leer if I wanted to?” I steamed. “The guy’s a goddamn spook. Half the time we lived with him, we could barely find him.”

            “Didn’t you say he helped get me into Saint Tom’s in the first place?” My fists tensed, and I made a mental note to be way more careful when drinking and speaking around Mike.

            “Whatever I said, forget about it. I’m not hunting the guy down and begging him for favors every time one of us fucks up. You think about how that makes me look as a man?”

            “You know he’d help us any way he could. He’s, like, the closest thing to a…”

            “Don’t wanna hear it.” I raised a palm to his face. “Besides, he could be living in a ditch by now. Wouldn’t be able to do us any good, even if he wanted to.”

            “I could try talking to him.”

            “ _Drop it_ , Mike. Look, yeah, he’s a good guy, but he’s got issues. More issues than you know. We got out of his life at just the right time, trust me.” We found ourselves in front of the Lexington Ave subway station; I’d gotten off at this stop to come from work, but Mike would have to go a few blocks further and get on at Hunter College if he were to head back uptown. I paused at the top of the stairwell heading underground.

            “So, what’s our plan?” he asked.

            “Don’t got one yet. But I’ll figure it out. For the time being, you…” I prodded a finger into his chest. “Ain’t going anywhere other than work and home. When I get off the clock, you better be there. _Or else_. Capisce?”

            “Capisce.” He nodded, and kept marching down the sidewalk, my eyes following him until he was out of view. My cigarette was little more than a smoldering filter now, so I tossed it to the asphalt and ground it with the heel of my work boots. Thankfully, Thursdays were relatively quiet at the garage; Casey had given me the rest of the day off, understanding what kinds of bullshit Mike was prone to get into. I pulled my phone out, hesitating for a moment, before caving in and dialing a number from memory. One I hadn’t called in years, but one whose cadence I could never quite shake.

            “Yo, Jas.”

            “ _Well, well, well. The prodigal son_.” Jason’s voice buzzed with knowing smugness.

            “Yeah, yeah. Hey, you ain’t heard from Leatherhead recently, have you?”

            “ _Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. And maybe the old man said that you wanted out, and we weren’t supposed to go pulling you back in_.”

            “I called you, dipshit. Plus, I ain’t looking for _you_ , I’m looking for _him_. Just tell him I called, will you?”

            “Bet.” The line went silent. Knowing how this had gone in the past, I left the stairs and found a bench to park myself on, phone still in hand. Not five minutes went by before a vibration and a text from an unfamiliar number greeted me.

 

* * *

 

            What I had told Mike wasn’t entirely a lie. Leatherhead, the name whispered around the underworld of the city, was indeed a difficult man to come by. Only a select handful of people ever managed to meet him face-to-face, and even fewer knew a damn thing about him. On the other hand, Kobus Van Leer was the type of guy who shut himself inside and stayed put for weeks on end, wallowing in some mixture of self-pity and paranoia. The crucial question when it came to speaking with the guy was, which one are you talking to? If it were Leatherhead, I’d either have gotten no response, or a three-hour phone call, but the fact that I was sent an address in Washington Heights within minutes told me it was Van Leer I’d be doing business with.

            After navigating the maze of subway routes needed to take me as far uptown as 181st Street, I found myself standing in front of a faded beige brick building, a liquor store on the bottom floor and illegible graffiti tags showing from the alleyway. Compared to the Carnegie Hill brownstone he had when we first met, it was a mighty fall, but considering the padded room on Wards Island I'd found him in the last time we spoke, it was a step up. From the time I was fifteen, I knew that was the nature of everything about Van Leer: the only constant was change.

            Eyeing the buzzer by the door, I spotted “Apt. 2 - Dr. K. Van Leer” marked on the second floor, and thumbed the button. Through the tinny speaker, a voice broke through.

            “ _Aweh_?”

            “Kop? It’s, uh…” I leaned in closer, grimacing as I gave the juvenile nickname he hung onto. “Raphie.”

            “Yes, yes, come in.” I heard the thick metal door click, and heaved it open to enter the lobby, elevator doors staring back at me. Finding a place in the city, I thought to myself, must be a hundred times harder for him than it was for me. The stairs were quicker with only one floor to go up, so in a moment, I was in front of his worn oak door, a brass number 2 glinting back at me. Delivering a swift knock, the door opened before me almost instantly. What appeared to be an entirely new man stood before me: a clean brown crew cut, beginning to show hues of salt-and-pepper along the sides, and a trimmed beard several shades greyer. A sweater of thick green wool and a sparkling silver watch covering all but the toothed snout of the crocodile tattoo that ran down his forearm. Pressed khakis, with the empty left leg pinned up to his thigh as always. A complexion far less kissed by the sun than it had once been, now almost as pale as Mike’s. Frameless glasses perched in front of wistful moss-green eyes, much darker and more sunken in than my own of lime. Seven feet and a couple hundred pounds, all supported by his one remaining leg and a pair of all-black forearm crutches. A faint, measured smile gracing his lips.

            “Raphie.” He stated warmly.

            “Kop.” I smiled back.

            “You look well. An even bigger, stronger _buffel_ than when last I saw you.” He waved for me to come inside, before sliding his arm back into the slot of his crutch and swinging his way deeper into the apartment. Given how it looked from the outside, the apartment was nice; Spartan, maybe, but tidy and decently-appointed. He led me through to the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair for myself and gingerly lowered himself into his own. A steaming mug of red tea, filling the room with the scent of vanilla and honey, stood on the table before him.

            “You ain’t looking too bad yourself. A lot better than last time I saw you.”

            “We have a bad habit of finding one another when we are at our lowest, _laaitie_.” He chuckled. “But things are different now. New medication, a legitimate job. It’s good.”

            “But Jason still has your number.” I prodded. He didn’t look taken aback in the least.

            “Business is as good as ever, but my involvement is limited to phone calls and paychecks. The rest, I have people for.  _Handlangers_. Jason, I trust enough to contact me if they cause issues. Besides, you and I both know it’s impossible to wash our hands of that life completely. A part-time chemistry teacher can’t make rent in this city, no more than a mechanic can make tuition for parochial school.” He took a long sip from his mug. “And how is Mikey, the little _klipspringer_?”

            “Troublesome as ever.” I shook my head. “Well, not the same kinda trouble I was getting into at his age. Petty shit. You know, smoking pot, staying out late, cutting class.”

            “I seem to remember you doing all of those things.” He teased.

            “Yeah, but…that’s all he’s doing. As far as I know, I mean. The kids he’s fucking around with, they’re not into anything serious.”

            “I see. And any thoughts of what he’ll do after he graduates?”

            “More like _if_ he graduates.” I let out a raspy sigh. “He got kicked outta school again.”

            “Hmm.” Another sip of tea. I paused to attempt to plan my words out while he eyed me ambivalently.

            “That’s kinda why I came here. Now, I ain’t asking for a handout, like last time, but…”

            “It was not a handout, Raphie.” He cut me off. “You were paid fair wages for your work.”

            “Still, though. I just…I don’t really know what to do with the kid. He thought of you, asked what you’d do if you were in our shoes.”

            “I’ve been thinking about him too.” He set his mug down gently. “The school I teach at, Cedarwood, it’s for kids who are… _verskillende_. Special needs.”

            “Woah, hang on. He’s an idiot, yeah, but he’s…”

            “Diagnosed with ADHD. He has paperwork. Just because he stopped taking that _gif_ doesn’t mean the problem went away. And this school isn’t a _malhuis_. I know he’s no simpleton.”

            “You think they’d let him in now?”

            “It’s not a matter of getting in. The problem is tuition. The parents are all _bo-klas_ with troubled kids, and they’ll pay _kakspul_ for a diploma.”

            “More than Saint Thomas?”

            “Loads more, even just for the next two months.”

            “Then why’d you bring it up?” I hung my head in my hands.

            “There’s a job I need done.” I opened my mouth, but he wiggled a finger toward me. “Not a handout, and you won’t get your hands dirty this time. All you need to do is escort me to a meeting and stand by me, looking like a _bielie_. Make it seem we’ve got more than an old amputee and some Columbia dropouts on our side of the table.”

            “What kinda meeting you need muscle for?”

            “Not muscle. A _regterhand_.” He slid his glasses off his nose, and started to delicately wipe the lenses with the hem of his sweater. “The Purple Dragons are back, with a vengeance; they've been moving some twisted product recently, and a lot of it. Causing overdoses left and right. I told Jason and the other Jefferson Park boys to dump something cheaper and better out there, try to flood the market. But it’s not enough.”

            “So, what, we’re gonna sit down with the Purple Dragons, ask ‘em nice to stop killing junkies?” I snarled.

            “Hardly. We burned that bridge ages ago. No, we’re meeting their source.” He grinned at my doubting scowl. “Four separate events in the past few months, seemingly unrelated. The first: Ashi Industries, a conglomerate out of Tokyo, buys out a few pharmaceutical manufacturing plants in China. Second: the Foot Clan, only a small-time yakuza outfit a decade ago, successfully butts out every other major player from the Tokyo area. Third: Purple Dragons start ramping up their presence around a warehouse in Newark, one that gets filled every time ships from Tokyo comes in. And fourth: Ashi Industries opens a huge office space in Tribeca, sets up a new branch with this dame Oroku at the head of it. That’s the owner’s daughter. We’re going to meet her, and ask if she wants to play nice.”

            “You think it’ll be that easy?”

            “They’re businessmen, Raphie, not some _gham_ street rats. If they don’t want to negotiate, we’ll bid them _vaarwel_ and send the Russians after them. Either way, business booms, our hands are clean, and you get what you need.”

            “Damnit, Kop…” I snickered. “You’re making it too easy to get back into this shit.”

            “I don’t _want_ you back in it.” His tone dropped, and the look in his eyes became very grave. “ _I_ didn’t even want back in it. But I’m doing what’s best for you, so you can do what’s best for Mikey. _Verstaan_?”

            “Yeah, I got it.” I studied his expression deeply. He seemed sincere, as far as I could tell, and I had more experience reading him than anyone he’d ever done business with.

            “I’d hoped you’d see it that way. His paperwork for school, I can have sent out tomorrow." He paused thoughtfully. "You know, in spite of how it all ended, I still think of you two as…” His wistful smile and watery gaze caught my eye, and I braced myself emotionally. “My sons.”

            “I…” Should have stopped him when I had the chance. “Yeah. Me too, sometimes.” I stood up and pushed the chair in, planting a hand on his shoulder tenderly, not knowing what else to say.

            “Next Wednesday, at six. Meet me back here, and we’ll take the wagon.”

            “You seriously still got that thing?” I blurted with surprise.

            “ _Plus ça change_ , my boy.”

            “I barely understand half your Afrikaans, Kop. _Please_ don’t make me learn French too.”

 

* * *

 

            I had half a mind to leave the bike at the garage for the night and just head straight home, but I didn’t want Mike asking questions about where I’d been all afternoon. Rather than take the subway all the way downtown and back up, though, I got off at 86th Street on the West Side and took a long walk across Central Park. The sun was starting to set behind me, and hues of orange and purple shimmered off the dark waters of the reservoir. It was getting chilly, and I kicked myself for not bringing a coat, but a cramped subway car is the last place I want to be when I need to think.

            Wanting to keep my nose out of the city’s underbelly wasn’t my main reason for avoiding Van Leer like the plague, no matter how many times I told myself that. Nor was it a desire to keep toxic or unstable people out of my life, as I did with Jason and the gang, like I explained to Mike a million times. The truth is, there was a time that I thought of him like a father, and that made me more unsure than almost anything in the world.

            After living in a string of the shittiest foster homes unimaginable, I’d given up hope of ever finding a happy home until it was my name on the lease. I might have been the most jaded and pessimistic fifteen-year-old in the tri-state area, but in a way, I think I had the lowest expectations too. When Ms. Taylor told us who our next foster parent would be, I was understandably skeptical: a young, rich, South African guy, teaching at an Ivy League school, with a gorgeous house in a safe, upscale side of town. There had to be a catch; he could be abusing the system for a stipend like the Gonzales’, an abusive religious nutcase like the Murphy’s, a checked-out drunk like the Caliguri’s, or a mix of all three. It took almost the whole first year of living with him to let my guard down and appreciate the kind of guardian he was to us: a guy who cared about our wellbeing, listened when we had problems, spoiled us with gifts and a comfortable home, gave us all the space we needed, and wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on us. Basically, a good guy.

            Of course, by the time I realized that, it was basically too late for me. If the Jefferson Park boys had any concept of a ‘made man’, I was it. A wave of police activity took many of the big names in drug-pushing and street crime out of Upper Manhattan a couple years prior, leaving an ample vacuum for us kids to muscle in on. While Van Leer was taking Mike to therapy and watching his rec-league basketball games, I was out busting kneecaps and flipping bags to junkies. Aside from the odd Purple Dragon moving far out of their Chinatown base, we had no major competition on our turf. While I wasn’t quite as slick and sly as Jason, or as reckless and violent as Slash, I was known as a no-nonsense heavy hitter. That meant that when our major source for smack got busted, and Jason caught word of a new pusher looking for someone to move his product at street level, I was his right-hand man for our meeting with the guy. His _regterhand_.

 

* * *

 

            _Black hood up, red bandana over my nose and mouth. Faceless, nameless, hopefully looking older than sixteen. Brass knuckles already on underneath my left glove, butterfly knife strapped onto my right wrist, ready to get pulled at a moment’s notice. Not my ideal carry, but Pete convinced us that it’s best to let the little guys carry the Glocks when rolling as a set, in case things went south. Plausible deniability, or some shit like that. As we stepped out of Mona’s Accord, I wondered exactly what the odds were of getting knocked over in a place like this. Back across town, in East Harlem, I’d feel a little on edge rolling this deep. Here in Morningside Heights, the probability seemed low. This wasn’t a trap house; it was a goddamned school building. The sign by the door even read, ‘Columbia University – Graduate Chemistry Laboratory.’_

_“Can’t be the right place.” I chuckled. “This guy’s hustling us.”_

_“I told you, Red. He’s legit.” Jason spat. Tyler’s Corolla dropped off four of the newer guys before peeling off back into the street, and he waved for us to follow him around to the back of the building. “Don’t forget – everyone shut up. I do all the talking.”_

_Out of view from streetlights and windows, a faint red ember and billow of smoke greeted us from the half-closed shutter door of a delivery bay._

_“Can I help you?” A voice echoed through the alleyway._

_“You Leatherhead?” Jason asked. The silhouette stepped forward, a skinny black guy in a white lab coat with a picked-out afro. Eyeing us over for a second through the round frames of his glasses, he started snickering._

_“No way. You’re literally children!”_

_“Don’t fucking worry about who we are, dude.” He pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket. “You want me to call the big guy, or are you gonna let us in?”_

_“Fine, fine. No problem.” He heaved the door further upward, holding it as we crossed under, then slamming it shut and turning the creaky lock shut. “It’s right down here. Just please, and I can’t stress this enough: please don’t touch anything.”_

_We filed out of the garage, into a sterile white hallway flickering with fluorescent lights overhead. Passing rows and rows of doors, I wrinkled my nose at the acrid scent of ammonia covering everything around us. At the end of the hall stood a pair of thick metal doors, with a keypad on the frame. The man who led us in hunched in front of it and beeped in his code, as a loud mechanical click sounded, and he pulled the doors open._

_Inside, a half-dozen people decked out in lab coats, face masks, hairnets, and plastic goggles sat at lab benches, where their gloved hands weighed masses of powders and poured beakers of fluids into steel vats. One stood up, removed a vat from its mount, and took it beneath a massive hood, where the roar of fans inside started with the flick of a switch as they added more reagents._

_“Who’d have thought chemistry class could be so fun?” Jason smirked, earning a curious look from our guide as he marched us through the lab at a safe distance from the workers._

_“Finish high school, get a bachelor’s and a master’s, and you could be having fun like this too.”_

_“How the fuck do your teachers not know what’s good?”_

_“Oh, he knows. He’s right in there.” The guy pointed toward the glass door at the far side of the room. Approaching it, he delivered three curt knocks and turned the knob. “Visitors are here, Doc.”_

_“Thank you, Baxter.” An eerily familiar accent sounded from inside the office. Our four followers took up position on either side of the door while I tailed Jason inside. Turning to close the door behind us, I heard the boss tap a stack of papers on his desk and clear his throat._

_“Leatherhead, right?”_

_“Only if you’re Mondo, son.” On the other side of the desk sat a burly man with a buzzed head and bushy beard of mahogany, lab coat strewn across the back of his wheelchair, and sleeves of his powder blue shirt rolled up, revealing the menacing form of a crocodile tattooed down his arm. His deep green eyes regarded us with amusement and curiosity._

_“The one and only. I gotta say, man, that is some gnarly ink. I’m more of a gecko guy myself, but crocs are pretty badass.” That was why Jason handled the business end of our operation; he chatted people up until they were all chummy, then talked money like it was an afterthought._

_“Oh, I fucking hate crocs.” He grinned, reaching into the drawer of his desk and producing a translucent orange bottle. “Never want to see one again. Not after what the last one did to me.” Wheeling out from behind the desk, he gestured toward the empty left leg of his slacks, pinned up to the thigh._

_“No way, dude! You gotta tell me what happened.”_

_“It was back in my Army days.” He popped the cap off the bottle and plucked a tiny white pill from its mouth, placing it on a loose sheet of paper. “I was leading my battalion deep into MPLA territory, following a supply line along the Cuanavale River to cut them off before they reached the Caprivi Strip. We set up camp far enough in the marsh that we’d be safe if the rebels came around.”_

_“Not safe from crocs, though.” Jason smirked._

_“Aweh! Right as I fall asleep, this bull of a croc sneaks his way into my tent. Six meters long, probably a thousand kilos at least. What he was after, I’ll never know. I heard him rustling on the canvas, and slowly started inching toward my gun, when…” Folding the pill into the sheet, he grabbed his stapler and dramatically thudded it down onto the wadded paper. Jason jumped at the sudden explosion of noise. “Chomp! Snapped clear through the bone, locked on like a bear trap. I tried shaking him off, prying his jaws open, nothing. Hollered out to my men, but the fuckers weren’t fast enough. So, I grab the thing by its neck, and twisted it with my bare hands until its belly was pointing to the sky. Even then, when the rest of its body was limp, its jaws were so tight, I had to smash its skull with the butt of my rifle just to get the damned corpse off me.”_

_“That is fucking wild, dude!”_

_Through the whole story and subsequent negotiations, I stood there gnashing my teeth behind my bandana, tensing my fist around the brass knuckles. Copious swearing and pill-snorting aside, I’d just listened to the same story he’d told Mike and I on our first day together, almost word-for-word. Shifting my focus to the pill bottle, I realized at a point that its contents looked eerily familiar: the same ADHD drugs that Mrs. Caliguri used to grind up and sneak into Mike’s breakfast. The same pills that Van Leer himself told us were responsible for the headaches, night sweats, and zombie-like behavior the kid had been dealing with. Gif, he’d call them, poison; as a guy with a Ph.D. in pharmacology, he knew them better than the people making them, he said, let alone the psychiatrist Mike had been dragged to so many times._

_The brief warming up to the guy I’d experienced since moving in with him disappeared completely in a matter of minutes. He wasn’t a fun, energetic guy, he was a speed fiend. He wasn’t ignoring the times I snuck back in after late nights rolling with the boys, he was out cooking smack on the other side of the city. That meant Mike was at home, completely alone, and defenseless if anything were to happen. He was reckless, negligent, a fucking asshole. Every laugh and smile he gave to Jason through their conversation devalued the ones he’d given to Mike and me. When they shook hands and Jason stood up to leave, I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew some words needed to be said._

_“I’ll catch up with you guys later.” I leaned in and growled as he stepped through the doorway._

_“Are you fucking crazy?” He whispered back tersely. “We just got the deal of a lifetime. Don’t fuck this up for me, Red.”_

_“I think I know this guy from somewhere. Just wanna talk to him. C’mon, you can trust me.” He eyed me suspiciously for a moment, and turned away, continuing his march as the lab tech and our four stooges followed. I slammed the door behind me and stared back at the surprised doctor, tense silence hanging thick in the air._

_“And what can I help you with, son?” he finally asked. I stomped up to his desk, snatching the pill bottle from it and rolling it around in my hand, reading the label. Sure enough, the name ‘Michelangelo Tartaruga’ stared back at me._

_“Is this a fucking joke to you?” I tugged my bandana down with my free hand, revealing the murderous scowl beneath it. His face dropped from perky mirth into aghast horror in a heartbeat._

* * *

            When I finally made it back to the apartment, it had been dark for long enough that Mike must have thought I worked the rest of my usual shift. At the very least, he didn’t say anything about it. True to his word, he was sitting on the living room floor when I arrived, blathering into his headset while playing some idiotic online shoot-em-up. Crossing behind him, I entered the kitchen and peered into the fridge, finding a few still-warm paper buckets of Chinese food. Lifting each one to see what felt the fullest, I settled on fried rice and paced back to the living room, flopping onto the couch with spoon in hand. My eyes mindlessly focused on the screen without really understanding anything about how the game worked, and as Klunk hopped up onto the cushions alongside me, I offered him gentle pats while simultaneously shushing his curious nose from my food.

            Often times, I wondered if my life would be any different had I gone with Mike to therapy, like Van Leer repeatedly offered, rather than sneaking out and doing hood shit. Over time, Mike had gone from being overly wary and terrified at the drop of a needle, to coming off as unbothered and indifferent to just about everything. As for me, well, I still had the same hairtrigger temper; the only difference was, I stopped punching holes in walls and breaking windows once the repairs had to come from my own paycheck. I recalled my brother’s claim that pot helped him to calm down, and envied it; my own experience with the stuff was that it made me tired, hungry, and basically non-functional. As soon as I could find something that helped me to relax, without leaving me hung over or high as a kite, I was sure I’d get hooked as hard as Van Leer on Adderall.

            As Mike’s match appeared to end, I tugged his headset off his ears, and he shot a bothered frown back at me.

            “Put a shirt on, you bum.” I peeled myself off the couch. “We’re going to the gym.”

            “Ugh…” he groaned. “What, you wanna get me in the boxing ring so you feel better about wailing on me?”

            “Not boxing tonight.” I stepped to the closet by the front door, and pulled out the orange motorcycle helmet that had been collecting dust for a few months. “Tai chi.”

 

* * *

 

_It was probably three AM when we finally left the laboratory. Having managed to get most of my anger out in his soundproof office, I helped Van Leer put his folded-up wheelchair in the trunk of the black Mercedes wagon, as I’d done for him countless times before. From the moment we left his office, until the car doors closed, I’d been silent. Now we were alone again, and I still had much more to say._

_“I know it’s useless trying to get you out of that posse, Raphie. I wish you would, but I can’t make you until you want to.” He started._

_“And I wish you weren’t the one cooking for us. You know what happened to our last guy? He’s locked up for forty years.” I turned to face him as he turned his keys in the ignition, feeling the rumble of the V8 beneath us. “If you get knocked over, how am I supposed to explain that to Mike?”_

_“And if you get shot up in some back alley, how am I supposed to explain it to him?” He waited for a response that I couldn’t even begin to think up. “Your friends don’t seem like the careful type, laaitie. On the other hand, I am. If you stick with me, and are willing to take a little of my advice, I think we can improve each other’s odds.”_

_“You’re saying I should work for you?”_

_“Not for me. With me. The kids in the lab are smart, yes, but they don’t know a thing about working at street level. I couldn’t ask one of them to be my regterhand.” He lifted his right hand from the wheel for emphasis. “That’s where you come in.”_

_Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. The man my little brother already thought of as a father was asking me to go into business with him, in an attempt to flip the city’s drug market on its head. Messing with the status quo, in my experience, ended with bloodshed, and a lot of it. But neither of us could convince the other to give it up._

_“On one condition.” I finally piped up. “Nothing in the house. Not even these.” I reached to shake the pocket of his lab coat, hearing the pills rattle around inside. “Mike can’t know what’s going on with either of us. As far as he’s concerned, we’re a normal, happy family.”_

_“Of course.” After another length of silence, I felt the need to add something._

_“And if you’ve legit got drug lord money, fucking spring for a babysitter if we’re both gonna be out all night.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with a big ol' looooongboi of a chapter!
> 
> With regards to my little spiel about tags in the previous chapter's notes, I'm gonna cheat and prematurely add in the L/R tag. Yeah yeah, big surprise, right? Lmao the locker room scene happened, big whoop, maybe it's just one-sided, who knows? I'm only adding it because no one's reading this; y'all some horny bastards, only giving stories reads if they got smut!
> 
> And sorry if the Afrikaans is tedious! Doubly so if it's incorrect! My grandfather grew up in ZA, so I checked some of the terminology by him, but he's primarily an Anglo so there's a good chance I've got some of it wrong lol. If context wasn't enough for you...
> 
> Kop Van Leer - head of leather (clever af, right? lmao)  
> Aweh - hello  
> Buffel - buffalo/ox  
> Laaitie - boy/son (laddy)  
> Handlangers - underlings  
> Klipspringer - rock antelope  
> Verskillende - different  
> Gif - poison  
> Malhuis - loony bin  
> Bo-klas - upper-class  
> Kakspul - shitloads  
> Bielie - tough guy  
> Regterhand - right hand  
> Gham - uncivilized brutes (racist connotations)  
> Vaarwel - farewell  
> Verstaan - understood  
> Plus ça change - the more things change (the more they stay the same) (this one's French)
> 
> Thanks for your time and attention, and please do stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

            On the way to the gym, I toyed around with the idea of taking Mike to work with me until he was set up at Cedarwood. I knew it would put my own mind at ease if he were close by, rather than doing god-knows-what until his delivery shifts started. As far as I knew, all his friends were still in school, so the amount of trouble he could possibly get into was limited. Still, though, even sitting at home playing his damned video games all day wasn’t a good habit to let him fall into. Of course, not ten minutes into the tai chi class, I realized why my idea was terrible: Mike’s the type of kid you just can’t take anywhere.

            His constant complaining on the ride over, and all the way down to the normally-empty classroom in the basement of the Y, was easy enough to brush off. After all, I’d been dealing with it my entire life; the kid still put up a stink on the odd days I cooked vegetables with dinner. Much like vegetables, I figured some tai chi would do us good; if that Leo character was to be believed, it could mellow the both of us out a bit without leaving me slurring my words or Mike with eyes looking like strawberries. When we arrived, the classroom had about a dozen people inside: Leo standing at the front, facing the wall of mirrors behind him and stretching his shoulders out behind his head. A mix of older guys and housewife-looking women in rows looking toward the front, chatting amongst themselves. And a tall stringbean of an Asian kid in the far corner of the room, cropped black hair framed by a lavender bandana, mimicking Leo’s stretches exactly.

            “Dude, it’s all geezers and moms.” Mike blurted, earning scowls from the few attendees within earshot. “You sure this is the right place? I thought we were gonna learn some real hi-ya, ki-yiy, booyakasha moves.” He poorly caricatured a roundhouse kick, stumbling backwards a step.

            “You even know what tai chi is?” I gravitated toward the lonesome kid in the back of the room, trying to start a new row.

            “Waterbending, dude.” He grinned proudly. “Figure I’ve watched enough Korra to teach the class myself.” I rolled my eyes, praying he’d shut up before we got started.

            Leo started off introducing himself, a welcoming smile on his face as he looked out on the class. The brief flash of eye contact he made with me set off a bit of churning in my stomach, but nothing I couldn’t attribute to the hastily-wolfed Chinese food from earlier in the evening. Before leading us through a stretching and breathing exercise to warm up, he produced a phone from his pocket and synced it to a Bluetooth speaker against the wall. A slow, gentle melody of trickling piano and faint percussion began to play, filling the room with a tranquil mood. Inevitably, Mike rolled his eyes.

            “You vibe with this, bro?” He leaned in to whisper, snickering to himself as a clarinet began to croon over the music. “Some real Kenny G shit.” I let out a terse grunt in response, trying my best to keep my eyes on Leo as he walked us through a full body stretch.

            “Most of you probably won’t be able to do this, but just move your leg up as far as feels comfortable.” The blue-eyed man instructed warmly from the front, before gripping his ankle and lifting it up above his shoulder. “The goal is to loosen up, not to see how far you can go and hurt yourself in the process.”

            “This dude’s a fuckin’ cheerleader.” Mike cackled and pointed, while half-heartedly trying to emulate Leo. “Look at those kicks, dude.”

            Not responding, I noticed Leo had traded the showboating sneakers he wore the last time we met for a pair of navy-soled toe shoes. From the corner of my eye, I began to notice a trend in the mirror: whenever Mike would make some snarky remark, the guy to my right would scrunch his face up, as if he was seriously bothered by the interruption. Understandable, I thought to myself, if a little dramatic.

            After we were properly loose and ready to go, Leo introduced a beginner move, one he called ‘Single Whip’. Basically, it consisted of moving fluidly from a normal standing posture into a striking one, where the right hand was pinched downward behind us like a bird’s beak, the left hand was pushed forward with an open palm, and our body weight was born on a slightly bent left leg. At face value, it seemed simple enough, but to get the whole motion down in one elegant maneuver was surprisingly tough, even disregarding the flourishes his hands performed.

            “The important part is, at the end of the move, your stance is stable. Go on, push me.” He waved one of the ladies from the front row forward, not breaking his pose, and giggling like a schoolgirl, she gave a gentle tap to his solar plexus. As expected, he didn’t budge. “See? Everyone, give the person next to you a little push, and see if they’re firmly rooted.”

            “How firm you feeling, bro?” Mike chuckled, catching me off-guard with a strong shove to the shoulder. Flailing my arms around in a desperate attempt to regain my balance, I stumbled to the side, and inadvertently gave the man next to me a slap across the back.

            “Ah shit! My bad.” I yelped. His deep brown eyes bulged out and blinked rapidly with some kind of animal panic, and he let out a soft meeping noise as he turned away and shrank back further into the corner of the room, as if I was a leper. I spun around to face my laughing little brother, who promptly shut up when he caught my grimace of rage.

            We were taught another rookie move, ‘White Crane Spreads Wings’, where a step forward and a sweeping motion of the hands diagonally across the chest brought us into a pose with one palm faced down at hip level, and the other at eye level, as if blocking out the sun. This one was a little easier to follow, but only barely. Leo emphasized how our _chi_ was supposed to flow through our bodies with each sequence of the movement, and while I remained skeptical about any of that, I did feel myself starting to relax a little, even as the soothing music started to fade. That is, until I heard more dastardly snickering coming from Mike. I did my best to ignore him, but in the reflection of the mirror, I could see he was staring into his phone, tapping the screen while pretending to follow instructions. Suddenly, just as the previous track went silent, the speakers blared with an angry scream.

            “ _I can’t get started from the part where I left off yesterday,_

_Should have spent my time a little wiser._

_I sat alone, guilty as sin, waiting for words to come,_

_From out of my head, still making sense to anyone._ ”

            Several of the attendees fell from their poses with shock, myself included, and Leo bent downward at the waist to shut the stereo off just moments after the guitars began to wail. With a shriek, the kid next to me made a mad dash toward the door and out of the classroom.

            “Sorry, folks. I’ll be back in a second.” Leo’s face dropped to one of deep concern as he followed out the room. Mike could barely stifle his laughter, sliding his phone back into his pocket. I turned to stare daggers at him.

            “Oh man, that was too classic!” He slapped his knees. “Did you see that kid? I think he _literally_ pissed himself!”

            “Outside.” I growled through bared teeth. “ _Now_.”

 

* * *

 

            _“You’re sure you want me to do this?” I gulped._

_“For the hundredth time, yes! Raphie, the Jood commandos who taught me were twice your size. Trust me, okay?”_

_“Okay.” I drew in a deep breath through my nose. “I’m ready.”_

_Van Leer tightened his grip on one crutch, and with his free hand, produced the black glint of a handgun from his hip. In a flash, it was pointed square between my eyes. Just as we’d practiced countless times in slow-motion, my left hand gripped the barrel and aimed it downward as I stepped hastily to the side. My right hand balled into a fist and shot straight into his mouth, then curled back to wrap around the pistol grip, wrenching it from his hand. His head went twisting back, and he fell to the matted floor with a thud while I spun the gun around and aimed it right at his head. He wiped the flecks of spit from his lips, double-checking the back of his hand for any blood._

_“Very good.” He grinned, retrieving the crutch beside him. “You’d have knocked a two-legged man over with that punch. Now, again.” I reached down to help him back upright, and he snatched the gun from me, tossing it in the air before stuffing it back into his pocket._

_“Seriously?”_

_“Practice makes perfect.” He chided. “Besides, the Russians are probably the wiliest bunch in the city. I want you able to do this with your eyes closed by the time we meet that Steranko character.”_

_“You’re a real sick guy, Kop.”_

_“And I offered to sign you up for proper Krav Maga classes. Do it again.”_

_I nodded, and as before, he pressed the barrel of the pistol to my forehead. Before I could make my move, an unlatching sound came from the top of the stairs._

_“Doctor V, Doctor V!” Mike’s voice echoed throughout the basement. His eyes going wide, Van Leer tossed the gun as far as he could, letting it smash against the wall and clatter to the ground behind a messy pile of training mannequins. “Klunk tinkled in the kitchen again!”_

_“He is still a very little katjie, Mikey. You have to be patient with him.” He leaned down to grasp his second crutch, and made his way over to the stairwell._

_“Yeah, Mike. We were patient with you when you were still pissing on the floor!” I laughed._

_“Raphie.” He turned back and shot me a serious look, before tilting his head toward the swerve ball in the corner of the room. “Work on strikes for a bit, this will only take a second.”_

_The two of them left me alone in the basement, and I took up my position, staring at the leather bag suspended between two springy steel cables and bracing my fists. The beauty of the swerve ball was in its ability to bounce around at the slightest touch, necessitating both speed and focus to dream of landing two punches in a row. Its small size made it a tougher target than the full-sized punching bag hanging on the other side of the room, and its unpredictability gave it an edge over the speedbag mounted to the wall nearby. Locking my eyes on the worn bag, I shot a fist toward it, and narrowly dodged its backswing with a nifty side-step. Dancing back toward the center, I launched two quick jabs, barely grazing it with the second and sending it spiraling to the left._

_Somehow, after agreeing to do business together, Van Leer became even more like a father to me. He’d essentially bribed me into getting all C’s and above my sophomore year by promising me a home gym, making a similar deal with Mike to get him a cat, and he more than came through on his end of the bargain. The basement was converted into my own personal playground by the first week of summer, replete with weights, benches, punching bags, sparring equipment, and much more. We found ourselves in a routine of exercising and training every morning, before he dropped Mike off at day camp and headed to work. Though our time down there was ostensibly to prepare for some of the seedier aspects of our trade, it felt more and more like we were bonding as each day passed. He’d tell me stories too gruesome for Mike’s ears, critique my form, teach me some techniques he’d picked up in the Army, and shower me with encouragement and praise when it was due._

_That was the part that convinced me he truly was different. Before Van Leer, the only positive reinforcement in my life came from the other Jefferson Park boys, after successfully beating a stoolie into a pulp or intimidating a shopkeeper into forking over protection money. From him, it meant worlds more; he was a man, one almost entirely self-made, with forty-some years of experience under his belt dealing with shit I’d never dreamed of. Just thinking about being his right-hand man, his most trusted weapon, made me feel like I was worth something. What’s more, he treated Mike like his own child, and steered him toward the wholesome life we both wanted for him at every turn. He could have treated me like dirt, and I’d have still respected him more than any other adult in my life on that alone._

_I hardly noticed the click of the door and the tap of his crutches on the stairs, being too engrossed in my sparring with the whirling bag. Letting it come to rest in the center again, I mapped out where it would bounce to in my head before precisely aiming two jabs, each hitting it square in the middle before it came swinging back. Smiling, I didn’t hesitate to do it again, this time managing to knock it five times before missing it completely._

_“You’re a natural, laaitie.” His warm voice came from over my shoulder. “They won’t even know what hit them.”_

* * *

            “Okay, dude, I’m seriously fucking beat.” Mike panted, dropping the blocker from in front of his face. “My wrist deadass feels like Jell-O.”

            “You ain’t even the one doing the punching this turn.” I sneered, shadowing a few more punches in his direction. “I’ve seen watermelons that can take harder hits than you.”

            “Then go find one and beat _that_ up, bro. I’m showering and getting the hell out of here.” He set the leather pad back on the rock, and turned to leave the boxing area.

            “Oh no, you don’t.” I yanked at the collar of his tank top, spinning him around. Across the hall, the tai chi class was just getting out. For the remainder of the hour after his stupid little prank, I basically ran him through the gauntlet, taking him into the ring three times (clobbering him every time, of course) and sparring with him non-stop between bouts. It wasn’t an outright assault, though; I did wear the blocker and let him take a whack at me a few times, but the kid had nowhere near enough muscle on him to do any serious damage. In the end, I guess I accomplished most of what I set out to do by bringing him to the gym: working out some steam, and tiring Mike out. He’d thrown a wrench into my plans to see Leo again, though, and for that, he had to pay.

            When most of the people had filed out and down the hall, I marched Mike over and brought him inside. The only ones left were Leo, organizing his gym bag, and the guy we’d stood beside during class, eyeing us cautiously and backing up behind the instructor.

            “Raph!” Leo smiled, and I started to reevaluate as my throat felt like it was closing up. “Hey, I’m glad you gave it a try, at least. Tai chi isn’t for everyone.”

            “Oh, no, I…I liked it, actually.” I cleared my throat. “Wanna come back next week. Leo, this is my brother, Mike. Mike, Leo.”

            “Sorry for fucking with the radio, dude.” He hung his head, and defeatedly stuck out a hand. “My b.”

            “That was you?” I held in a chuckle as Mike practically got lifted off the ground by the force of Leo’s handshake. “I actually thought it was pretty funny. But I appreciate the apology.”

            “And, uh…” he turned to face the stranger, who evaded his gaze and took another step back, practically crashing into the wall. Mike put his hand forward again, but there was no response. “Sorry for spooking you. I didn’t think it’d make you spaz out like that.”

            “Donnie, _kare wa shazai suru_.” Leo spoke tenderly. standing on tiptoe to lean in to the man’s ear.

            “Oh, shit, does he…not speak English?” Mike cocked an eyebrow.

            “I accept your apology.” The man blurted, still not making eye contact.

            “No, he’s been speaking English for longer than me! Mike, Raph this is my little brother, Don.”

            “Nice to meet you, Don.” I nodded in his direction. As different as they looked, I could make out some similarities: the shape of their eyes and jaws, their lanky builds, the faintest hint of an Eastern accent under their otherwise flawless English. Seemingly flabbergasted, Mike’s eyes shot from the dark-skinned man to the pale one and back repeatedly.

            “But you’re…And he’s…”

            “Taller than me?” Leo grinned knowingly. “We’re half-brothers. Donnie here just happened to get lucky in the height department.”

            “Same here. I got all the good-looking genes, and Mike got stuck with the insensitive idiot ones.” That earned a booming laugh from Leo, who slung his gym bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the lockers. Don tailed close behind, practically attached to his brother at the hip, and the two of us followed.

            “That tai chi stuff is harder than it seems.” I commented. “You make it look easy.”

            “The fundamentals can be difficult to pick up, but once you understand how to manipulate your _chi_ , it gets much easier. Donnie and I are lucky to have learned it as kids.”

            “You’re already a pro at this stuff?” Mike stepped forward to ask Don. “Why put up with us rookies, then?”

            “I was hoping Donnie could make some friends his age if he tagged along with me. We haven’t really got the chance to meet anyone since moving to the city.”

            “Fat chance of having kids come to learn that noise! I thought we’d be whipping around all slick, like Katara!”

            “Actually, the waterbending of the Avatar universe is based on the Yang style of _taijiquan_.” Don stated precisely. “We learned the Chen style, which is much closer to the original discipline of _wudangquan_.”

            “Woah…So you’re like, a master, then?” Mike delivered a dramatic bow. “Honored to meet you, sensei.”

            Inside the locker room, Leo pointed toward the alcove with curtained booths.

            “ _Puraibētosutōru_.” He said, and Don sauntered off with his gym bag. When he left the room, Leo started stripping down, and Mike and I followed suit.

            “So, what’s his deal?” Mike questioned, and I shot him a dirty look.

            “Oh, Don is autistic.” Leo answered plain as day. “He’s got a bit of a thing about nudity.”

            “Oh…” Mike gasped. “So him running off when I started blasting tunes...”

            “Loud noises are definitely not his thing, yes.”

            “Fuck, dude, now I really feel like a piece of shit.”

            “As you should.” I grumbled.

            “It’s not a big deal, guys. Donnie’s starting school soon, just to finish up work on his diploma, and I figured getting him outside of his comfort zone might warm him up for it. You just…gave him a little shock therapy, is all.”

            “Doesn’t excuse Mike’s behavior.” I offered. “Hey, how about we take you guys out for dinner sometime? Yorkville alone is full of cool joints, if you don’t feel like adventuring too far.”

            “I’d like that.” Leo smiled warmly, slipping his shorts into his bag. “Don’s not always big on trying new food, but…”

            “You name it, I can find a place that’ll blow his mind.”

            “Sashimi?” Of course it’d be expensive. In my mind, I stuffed my foot in my mouth.

            “Donguri. It’s on 83rd Street, that’s spitting distance from you guys. Best in the city, honest to god.”

            “Sounds like a plan. Our schedules are…hectic, to say the least. But we can definitely work something out by next week. I’ll see you at class?”

            “Bet. I’ll be there.”

            After a long, relaxing shower, we got dressed and continued to chat on our way to the street. Surprisingly, Mike was able to get Don talking a ton about that Avatar show they both watched; it was probably the most unlikely pair of guys in the world I’d expect to share interests. They said their goodbyes and hopped into a sleek black Lexus parked out front, and Mike and I made our way to my bike around the corner. As I handed him the helmet, he stared at me with an amused smirk on his lips.

            “What?”

            “You just asked that dude on a date, bro.”

            “Maybe I _shouldn’t_ have taken you here. Might have a concussion.” My fists tensed involuntarily. “Besides, it ain’t a date if I’m dragging you along. I’m making up for your dumb prank pissing that kid off, that’s all.”

            “Whatever you say, big guy. Should have got his number.”

            “You wanna know what it feels like to get pushed off a bike going thirty?”

 

* * *

 

             _Fake ID’s were a market we didn’t break into until relatively late in the game. As with almost everything else we pushed by the time junior year rolled around, Van Leer was the one to hook us up: someone in China had a card printer made in the same factory as the ones at the DMV, so the cards scanned, swiped, glowed under a blacklight, everything. The boss man was the one to arrange shipping; he had the cards hidden in the walls of boxes containing trinkets, little porcelain dolls or some other unassuming bullshit. They were flawless, and at $25 a pop in bulk, we could flip them for four times the price. Of course, we had to treat ourselves first, and test out the authenticity by hitting some seedy dives around our turf. Ostensibly, it was on business; now we could muscle the bars out of money the same way we did the other shops in the neighborhood. But on nights where the underlings were out doing our dirty work, we could afford to hole up in a joint and drink until we could barely walk home._

_Tonight, though, wasn’t one of those nights. Instead of going uptown to our usual haunts, I took the subway down to the Upper East Side and made my way to 91 st Streett. Hunched on a bench across 2nd Ave from my target, I clenched a cigarette and eyed the scene. My free hand toyed with my fake, spinning it between my fingers and catching glints of streetlight on the hologram. The place was called The Toolbox, about as campy of a name as I could imagine, and had a rainbow flag flying from the awning to boot. The rumbling pulse of a four-count dance beat reverberated through the whole street, overpowering even the cars separating me from the bar. In the back of my mind, I wished I’d gone further downtown, maybe even into the Village, to do something like this. Then again, I seriously doubted anyone would recognize me; the guys lined up out front looked mid-thirties, dressed like they were either from a neighborhood this swanky, or trying to fuck someone from it. Me, I wore what I wore to every other bar I’d ever set foot in: Yankees hat pulled down over my face, hoodie under a leather jacket, jeans with the knees worn out, and a beat-up pair of Jordans. To say I was out of place would be an understatement._

_I wish I could say I didn’t know what drew me to check a place like this out. I was a guy with girls hanging off my arms at every opportunity, I told myself; I’d literally gotten detention the week before for making out with one in the bathrooms. Never mind that it was all for the same reason I rooted for the Yankees, or stuffed my laces into my shoes instead of tying them; it’s what the boys did, so I did it. Too many times, I wondered if everyone felt as apathetic about girls as I did. That’s not to say I was a misogynist; Mona was as close to me as Pete or Tyler, probably even closer, but she was like a sister to us. The question was, did the other guys actually feel something flipping through the pages of a Playboy, or was it an act just like it was for me?_

_That’s quite possibly the dumbest question I’d ever asked myself; of course most dudes liked pussy, otherwise there wouldn’t be a magazine like that in the first place. Hell, there wouldn’t be people if sex with girls wasn’t the top priority on ninety percent of males’ minds. We’d have died out millennia ago if everyone were like me. Maybe Mr. Murphy was right; maybe it was wrong to want what I wanted. It pained me to think that the reason I was sitting out here hesitating, rather than going inside and talking to someone, might be because of some scar that asshole had left on my psyche. I wanted to flick my cigarette behind me and cross the street, just to spit on the memories I had of him, but there I sat, paralyzed with more doubt that I’d ever known my mind could bear at once._

_Sex wasn’t a frequent topic with Van Leer, and in a way, I was grateful for it. Sure, he talked about scoring chicks when he was an Army boy, but from what I gathered, he wasn’t nearly the same person now as he was back then. At the very least, he never brought a woman home to our place in Carnegie Hill. As for Mike, well…kissing girls on the middle school playground could mean as little for him as it did for me. The kid had barely hit puberty, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t sort that side of himself out for another year or two. I wasn’t about to ask him for details, regardless. Thanks to Van Leer, we had computers in our rooms, and with any luck, the wild world of internet porn would occupy Mike enough that he’d stay a virgin almost as long as I had, and wouldn’t get into any serious trouble in that department, be it catching a bug, knocking a girl up, or walking into a bar of older gay guys with a fake ID._

_I played the odds out in my head. Chances were, I wasn’t going to find anyone worth my time in there, and the odds of heading home with them were even lower. Hell, what was the likelihood one of them would even speak to a seventeen-year-old dressed like an East Harlem hood rat? It was a waste of my time even coming to this end of town. That train of thought was all I needed to cave into the fear and doubt I’d been stewing in the whole night. I peeled myself off the bench and pulled another cigarette out, lighting it with the dying embers of the one already in hand. Maybe some other time, but not tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts for yous cool cats:
> 
> -Music during tai chi is “Spiritual State” by Nujabes (not that it really matters, since there’s no words. but it’s some mellow vibes regardless)
> 
> -The song Mike puts on is “Get Out” by Circa Survive (listen to those two songs one after the other and see how quick that mellow gets shocked away haha)
> 
> -All descriptions of tai chi and krav maga are purely derived from Wikipedia and Youtube lmao, all I know is savate which is entirely unhelpful when writing actual cool martial arts.
> 
> -Today’s Afrikaans: “Jood” = Jew (ZA and Israel’s military collaborated a lot in the past, hence LH knowing krav maga) and “Katjie” = kitten
> 
> -Today’s Japanese: “Kare wa shazai suru” = he is apologizing, and “Puraibētosutōru” = private stall (I speak zero Japanese, so please do correct me if I’m wrong)
> 
> -I feel a lot more comfortable writing characters with ADHD and substance abuse issues than I do writing an autistic character, but it’s something I’ve been working up to for a while. My little brother is autistic, so I’m not totally clueless, but obviously that does NOT give me a free pass to portray Don in an incorrect or disrespectful manner, so PLEASE let me know how to fix it if I fuck this up! On that note, his character isn’t thoroughly explored in this chapter because he’s just being introduced, so it might seem like my portrayal is superficial. Believe me when I say I have a lot in store, and he’ll be playing a huge role soon enough.
> 
> -High schools aside, almost every location mentioned in the story is a real place in NYC. I went to college nearby, only venturing into the city itself on rare occasions, but I’ve painstakingly found neighborhoods, subway routes, and even restaurants to work in here, to make it as accurate as possible. One fun game to play is to go on Google Maps, and drop into Street View at random places; that way, I’m basing my work on actual buildings and streets rather than just imagining them.
> 
> -I hope you don't mind that the story is literally half flashbacks. I see it as telling two stories at once, and while this might not always be the case, the flashbacks are moving in chronological order.
> 
> Much love to all who read it, and keep on keepin' on!


	4. Chapter 4

            It had been nearly half a decade since I’d worn any kind of body armor, and yet somehow, Van Leer still new my size well enough to find some that fit me like a glove. Though it was more of a precaution than anything, a bulletproof vest was standard attire for any serious meeting the two of us attended. Previously, it had been beat-up, weighty Army surplus from South Africa, but now he’d found sleek, lightweight Kevlar that disappeared beneath a suit with ease.

            “This is the soberest I’ve ever seen you before one of these meetings.” I mused, tightening my silky black tie in the mirror. My ebony mop of loose wavy hair was slicked back into as neat of a style as I could manage, and the scruff I usually let linger around my jawline had been shaved clean off.

            “These yakuza are the closest to legitimate businessmen we’ve ever dealt with.” He fiddled with his cufflinks, seated on the bed behind me. “Even more so than the Italians or the Russians. That’s their niche; this Ashi Industries front company pulls in enough profit to make the Foot Clan’s under-the-table operations a drop in the bucket. So, we have to look legitimate ourselves.”

            “How’d you even get a hold of them, if they’ve got that much clout?”          

            “It’s all a code with them, Raphie. I simply said I was a domestic expert in pharmaceutical manufacturing, with a strong interest in cooperation on the local market. They got the message.”

            He heaved himself from the bed into his wheelchair, readjusting his blazer once he was settled in. Wheeling himself over to the closet, he reached in and tossed me a pair of gloves, the black leather matching my suit perfectly. The knuckles each bore a heavy steel plate inside, making the backs of my hands cold as I slid them on. We made our way out of the apartment, and took the elevator down to the garage, where true to his word, Van Leer kept the same blacked-out Mercedes E-Class in flawless condition.

            “Looks like she just rolled off the assembly line.” I whistled, giving the top of the wagon a gentle rub as he lifted himself into the passenger seat.

            “When you pay to get something bulletproofed, converted from left-hand to right-hand drive, and shipped all the way from _Kaapstad_ , you find it tough to let go.” He smiled wistfully in the rear-view mirror as I folded up his wheelchair and popped it into the trunk. I came around the driver side, relishing the same cold black leather seat I’d first learned to drive in. “Besides, their quality dropped off after ’96. This baby has another five hundred kilometers left in her.”

            “Just kinda figured you’d lost it, or sold it off after…well, you know. All the bullshit.” I pushed the key in the ignition and felt the engine roar to life, purring at the same frequency as ever.

            “I had it hidden somewhere not even _I_ was able to find it.” He let out a low chuckle. “Say what you will about the old me, but he sure knew how to set up a treasure hunt.”

            Having driven nothing but my motorcycle since we’d parted ways, I quickly recollected how frustrating it is to drive an actual car in Manhattan. The ride down to Tribeca was mostly a straight shoot along the Hudson Parkway, but what would have been a thirty-minute subway ride or forty-minute trip on the bike turned into an hour of stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Of course, getting Van Leer safely on a bike was damn near impossible, and navigating accessible subway stations was needlessly troublesome. Taking his crutches out of the house would have made things a bit easier, but some combination of pride and the convenience of not moving that slowly led him to leave them at home.

            Manhattan was probably the most treacherous place for a kid to learn to drive, let alone in a station wagon the size of a small yacht, but he had insisted it was a crucial skill, especially if I were ever lucky enough to get out of the city. Our trade wasn’t confined to solely Manhattan, though, so I often racked up hours towards driver’s ed by taking him to the docks in Jersey, scoping out cartel operations in the Bronx, or meeting with big players out in the cushy Nassau suburbs. Even after all this time, I was so in tune with the Mercedes’ handling and acceleration from all my practice that the car practically felt like an extension of my body.

            Finally, the drudgery of our journey was over: a massive façade of glass and stone, probably twenty stories high, stood like a monolith overlooking Warren Street. Growing up among skyscrapers like this, it wasn’t its size that took my breath away, but rather the fact we were about to walk in there, guns strapped to our hips and armor across our chests, and do business with someone more powerful than we’d ever met before.

            “Parking garage is up here, on the left.” He distracted me from my staring.

            “Got it.”

            “Don’t be nervous, _laaitie_.” Damn it. He never failed to read me like an open book. “The murder rate in this end of town is very low.”

            “You really know how to put a guy at ease, Kop.”

 

* * *

 

            _I must have been the only seventeen-year-old in the world to not think of throwing a party when left unattended for five days, with the whole house at my disposal. Firstly, I never let Mike know about the crowd I hung around with, and I could count the number of unaffiliated kids I knew on one hand. Any party here would turn the brownstone into a trap house within hours, and I refused to let the kid see that. Secondly, I had more important shit on my mind: there were two hours left until Van Leer and I were due to meet Don Vizioso, and I hadn’t heard dick from the guy in almost a week._

_It was becoming more and more common that he’d disappear for days at a time, so at first, I didn’t think much of it. Putting in overtime at the lab, he said, and constantly reshuffling how the distribution was organized. He called it guile, and I called it paranoia, induced by his ever-growing drug habit. One week, he was moving product from the lab to one warehouse in Manhattanville via unmarked box trucks. The next, he had six different locations, hidden in businesses and apartments scattered across the boroughs, and had everything shipped by a small army of rental cars, never using the same vehicle twice. His desire to stay two steps ahead was beginning to consume him, even when there was no one following. Worse yet, it was cutting into our profit margins, with each additional layer of security lessening the price difference between us and the competition._

_Tuesday had finally come around, and I was on edge. Five days with no contact was a new record. He hadn’t answered a single one of my texts, on either his personal line or the burner number he’d been doing business on for the past few weeks. That meant I’d have to hunt him down myself, and there wasn’t a moment of time to waste._

_“You know I hate to do it to you, Ape.” I begged into the phone. “But you gotta come up here ASAP.”_

_“I don’t know, Raph. This is the third night this week, and Casey wanted to take me to…”_

_“Don’t matter. I’ll pay you double. Shit, I’ll buy you both seats at the Ranger game next week. And I’ll order some of that Thai takeout for you and Mike.”_

_“Okay.” She sighed. “I can be there in half an hour.”_

_“You’re an angel. We’ll be home by midnight.”_

_“That’s what you said last…”_

_I ended the call before she could finish her sentence. April really was the salt of the earth; when Van Leer asked me to find one of my classmates to start babysitting Mike, she was the first person to come to mind. After all, she’d pulled Casey out of dabbling around with us Jefferson Park boys, and convinced him to straighten up his act almost completely, despite only officially dating him for a year. What’s more, Mike liked her, and if she had any idea where Van Leer and I were going off to when we needed her services, she certainly didn’t tell the kid._

_After hollering out to Mike and telling him to wash up before April came, I suited up, grabbed my gun from its hiding place under my bed, and burst out the front door, thumbing through the nameless contacts in my burner phone before finding the guy most likely to have some answers._

_“Who is this?” A voice whined from the other end of the line._

_“Baxter, it’s Raph.”_

_“Ugh…I told him to stop giving you vermin my number. I’m a grad student, not a…”_

_“No time. You seen Kop?”_

_“Not for a few hours. He said he was taking some things out to your friends in Jefferson Park. But I don’t think he…”_

_Snapping the phone shut, I estimated how long it’d take to get a cab over to the primary warehouse on my set’s turf. Looking at the pace of traffic on the street, it wouldn’t be fast enough; running, it’d only be fifteen minutes. Van Leer made a point to never travel in the same vehicle as his product, so the fact he was taking anything across town was a huge red flag. Off into the night I dashed, taking the back-alley routes I’d ingrained into my mind over the past few years. Panting, wheezing, and sweating bullets, I soon found myself behind the familiar bodega, where sure enough, the black wagon was parked haphazardly in front of a loading bay. I fumbled with my keyring and heaved open the door leading to our separate warehouse area._

_When I entered the seedy backroom, the first thing I noticed was the lack of people. Normally, we at least had a handful of grunts guarding the place, but among the rows of boxes and crates lying on the worn wooden floor, there was no one. On top of the piles of our wares, I noticed some unfamiliar bundles of white cloth littered around the room; unraveling one carefully, I stared back at an assortment of glassware, Bunsen burners, and other various lab equipment. Something here was very wrong._

_Making my way to the back of the floor, I burst through the door to what had once been a receiving office. Inside, Van Leer sat at a rickety card table bearing his laptop, a messy stack of papers, and a syringe, his teeth tightening the latex ribbon of a tourniquet around his arm. As he let it snap away, he plucked the syringe, expertly tapping the air bubbles out while slowly depressing the plunger. His eyes, dilated wide enough to conceal his jade irises, flickered to me briefly before refocusing on the task at hand._

_“You got any idea how long you’ve been gone?” I roared. He pricked a bulging vein at the hollow of his elbow, letting a trickle of scarlet bleed into the clear fluid before slamming the plunger down in one go._

_“Geen slaap sedert Saterdag nie.” He purred, tossing the syringe behind him casually while slumping forward and typing furiously on his keyboard. “Too busy.”_

_“Too busy with what? Shooting crank? We’ve got business to take care of.”_

_“And what do you think I’m doing, Raphie?” He snarled. “Steranko is willing to lend us laboratory space in Brighton Beach, but he wants the money wired to some damned bank in Kazan, so I’ve been sifting through this Cyrillic nonsense for hours, and…”_

_“Why do we need another lab? Whatever that Russian bastard is selling, I guarantee it’s a piece of shit. Remember those AKs from Romania?”_

_“I’ve been fired.” He murmured, eyes darting across the screen at a frantic pace._

_“What?”_

_“FIRED!” He slammed his fists onto the table, making his computer bounce upward. “Too many absences. Too many students failing. Can’t recall, but it doesn’t matter.” He started giggling maniacally as he remembered to pull the tourniquet away from his bicep. “Once I have Vizioso eating out of the palm of my hand, I could buy the whole fucking university and plow it over!”_

_“Well, you got about an hour and a half to get to Queens and make that happen.” I sighed. “You realize it’s Tuesday night, right?”_

_“FUCK!” he barked, brushing his papers and laptop into a heap on the floor and pushing his wheelchair toward me. “You’re driving, laaitie. I’m off my fucking ass right now.”_

_“No, really? I couldn’t tell.” I grumbled, taking the keys as he handed them to me._

* * *

 

            I kept my cool all the way through the tunnel to the grandiose lobby of the gargantuan office building, up the elevator for twenty floors, and into the antechamber of the board room. Two burly-looking Asian guys stood by the tall wooden doors, wearing black tailored suits even slicker than our own. They eyed us ambivalently for a moment, their somber expressions not faltering, before pushing the doors open. Van Leer wheeled his way in, and I followed close behind, scanning the room for any potential threats. The space was plain, one wooden wall decorated with a three-pronged logo in red and black, and the other left plain. A long maple table, surrounded by a couple dozen chairs, occupied the majority of the spacious room, but the only two people inside sat at the far end, in front of tall windows showing the glowing lights of the city behind them. At the head of the table sat a severe-looking young woman of fair complexion, narrow eyes of amber shadowed by the same blood-red pigment that tinted her lips. Her jet black hair hung straight down in a neck-length bob, almost meeting the clingy fabric of her turtleneck sweater. Everything about her screamed elegance and danger simultaneously.

            “Miss Oroku Karai.” Van Leer pressed his palms together and hunched forward, delivering a bow as best he could. “It’s a privilege to meet you.”

            “Indeed it is, Mister…Leatherhead, correct?” She smirked. “It is rare for someone in my position to meet with a so-called expert, unaffiliated with any corporation. Let alone one who goes by an assumed name.”

            “It appears I was mistaken, then.” Van Leer gave a soft pout. “I was under the impression you had made arrangements for local distribution with a gentleman by the name of…Hun, was it?” At that, she gave a faint grimace. “To which corporation does he belong?”

            “I see.” She swept her hand toward the end of the table closest to us, signaling us to sit. Van Leer hesitated for a moment before elbowing me gently in the knee, snapping me from my distracted trance, and I rushed forward to pull the chair away, giving him space to roll up to the table.

            From the moment I entered the room, my focus was wholly devoted to the man seated at the right of the woman. Ebony skin, almost as dark as the suit coat that framed his lean build. Thick, luscious lips held in a perfectly neutral horizontal line. Eyes as blue as the Pacific, not breaking from my own as we stared down from opposite ends of the room. Leo. I didn’t believe it at first, thinking I was imagining things, but as I stepped closer to sit at Van Leer’s right, he was unmistakable.

            “Allow me to properly introduce myself.” Van Leer planted his elbows on the table, leaning forward and smiling. “By my own estimates, I supply about seventy percent of your competition in this particular market. Over the last nine years, I’ve more or less held a monopoly on the city. And market shares aside, the quality of my products is widely known to be unmatched.”

            “The principles of capitalism would suggest a meeting such as this is unnecessary, then.” She stated coldly. “If there were no room in the market here for my business, I would still be in Tokyo.”

            “Unfettered capitalism tends to get messy quickly, my dear. My distributors, and our common competition, have only recently began to notice this new flood of products out of Chinatown. The other triads and tongs, the Russians, Latinos…even smaller players like the Albanians and Greeks. In this city, such diverse groups are known to occasionally ally to protect their interests, if the threat is serious enough.”

            The two of them continued their drawn-out, eloquent bickering, meanings hidden behind so many euphemisms that I could barely follow the conversation after a while. I still couldn’t shake Leo’s penetrating gaze, trying and failing to gauge what he was thinking as the two of us exchanged a frigid silence. The pleasant, proper, put-together man, who made my heartbeat stutter in a way I thought I’d never get the chance to experience, was, in an indirect way, the enemy. If I had been up to my neck in the world of organized crime, he was drowning in it. I was the right hand of a scientist, a man who worked behind the scenes, no matter how much he liked to trump up the size of his role when making an impression. But Leo…that ‘family business’ he said he worked in was a behemoth, one that had essentially taken over Japan and started stretching its tentacles into my city.

            Of course he was a yakuza, I thought to myself. I started drooling over a guy, tried to get to know him, and asked him out to dinner. I washed my hands of the life in the underworld that once threatened to consume me. Given my luck, the price to pay for dipping my toe back into the game was realizing that Leo stood at the forefront of it. New in town or not, he pushed to the Purple Dragons, an outfit that was quite literally the bane of my existence. Fate had blown him into my life to mock me, that much was clear.

            “I concede that local sourcing would be more profitable, at least for our operations in this country.” The lady acknowledged. “But as our activities are international in nature, the decision is not in my hands.”

            “Of course.” Van Leer frowned, furrowing his brow.

            “Surely, you did not expect a decision here and now?” She cocked an eyebrow. “A move this major must be cleared by the Tokyo office first.”

            “Understood.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and flicked a small card to land on the table before her. “When your father has made his mind up, I can be reached at this email address. Here, we find it’s best to encrypt any sensitive communications.”

            “Very well, then.” She gave a curt nod, and Van Leer pushed himself away from the table. On cue, I stood up and followed him out of the room. The two of us remained silent as we exited, past the guards, and into the elevator.

            “So…what now?” I asked once the doors closed. “Sic the Russians on her?”

            “That was the plan if she’d said no.” He shook his head, lost in thought. “A maybe, I’m not quite sure what to do with.”

            “You did good in there.” I muttered after a while. “Still spit a mean game.”

            “Thank you, Raphie.” He turned to give me a fatherly smile. “You played your role as well as I could have asked. I can have the money wired tomorrow, if you still have the same account?”

            “Woah, woah, woah. We didn’t even get a deal!” I stammered. “Where’s this money coming from?”

            “I told you, _laaitie_ , business is as good as ever.”

            “But Kop, your apartment is…”

            “A clever ruse.” His eyes glinted. “And a way of keeping myself humble. Don’t question it, Raphie; you did honest work, and you’re getting honest pay, just as we agreed. Besides, we both know this meeting could have gone much worse.”

 

* * *

 

             _“So…you’re this Leatherhead guy I’ve been hearing so much about?” The hefty mobster eyed us suspiciously from over his plate of pasta, pointing a fork at us. “Lucchese made it sound like you were some kinda genius.”_

_“Ja, and what’s a genius look like, exactly?” Van Leer’s eyes bulged menacingly. He was dressed in the same sweat-stained tank top and beaten camo shorts I’d found him wearing at the warehouse, with the gnarled flesh of his stump poking out from the hem, and several swollen track marks clearly visible on his non-tattooed arm. “You want me to go get a fucking Einstein wig?”_

_“My establishment does have a dress code, you know.” Vizioso slurped the noodles from his fork glutinously. “But given your reputation, I suppose I can make an exception.”_

_“Oh, baie dankie, I’m flattered.” He cackled, slamming his forearms down on the table and tilting his head down like he was a bull about to charge forward. “Now, I didn’t come out here for babbel. Let’s talk business.”_

_“Direct and to the point. I like that in a man.” He smirked. “Okay. I can get a brick of pure, fresh Afghani smack shipped here for thirty grand, step on it, and flip it for a hundred grand. You tell me how you can do better.”_

_“Better? Okay.” He lowered his head to the table and covered his nose and mouth, drawing in a deep breath. “First of all, whoever’s cooking it out there in the veldt and telling you it’s pure, they’re taking you for a fucking wanker. Me, I’d be insulted. Now, if your people do that much business with the charos, you tell them to ship the raw opium here. I’ll cook it, test it, and get you a kilo for twenty grand, with the paperwork showing you just how pure it is.”_

_“This is interesting.” Vizioso stabbed a meatball with his fork, popping it into his mouth. “But money ain’t the only variable my associates worry about. Volume and time are very important factors. Let’s say I get the opium to you, however much you need. How fast would you get me a hundred bricks?”_

_“A hundred bricks?” He looked like he’d been slapped across the face. “Fucking Christ, man, you want to kill the whole damned city?”_

_“It ain’t a joke.” The man’s face went gravely flat._

_“Alright, alright.” Van Leer scratched at his neck nervously, cocking his head to the side. “If I can get two shipments of the reagents I need from Hong Kong, back to back, I’d make that in about a month and a half, maybe two.”_

_“And how often do these shipments come in now?”_

_“At the old lab, every four months. But if I can score the new space I’m looking at, and set it up in two weeks’ time, then we…”_

_“Hang on.” The mobster cut him off. “You come into my restaurant, trying to cut some kinda fast deal, and you ain’t even got a place to cook?”_

_“Oh, like you could get a fucking boat full of opium into the harbor in the next two weeks? Don’t take me for a fool.”_

_“I would ask you extend me the same courtesy.” His nostrils flared. “You do realize you’re talking to the Chairman of the Commission, right? The capo di tutti capo? There’s nothing I can’t make happen in this city.”_

_“What kind of fairy godmother bullshit is that? There’s a war in Afghanistan, you fucking idiot, that much weight doesn’t even cross the border in a week anymore!”_

_“That’s enough.” He set his fork down beside his plate, staring daggers at us from across the table. “Lucchese assured me I would be making a smart business decision, not getting insulted by a lunatic gimp with a rent boy for a bodyguard.”_

_“BLIKSEM!” With a snarl, Van Leer reached down to his lone combat boot and pulled his Ruger out, aiming at Vizioso’s head with a subtle trembling in his grip. In a flash, the two men standing at the door behind us brandished their submachine guns, pointing the dark steel barrels at the both of us and inching in our direction. On reflex, I grabbed the Glock from my waistband and lifted it toward the one aiming at Van Leer. For what felt like an eternity, we all hung in a wordless deadlock, the only motion being the two gangsters approaching us cautiously. It struck me only at this moment that Van Leer had no body armor on whatsoever, not that it would do him much good against a headshot. Finally, I felt the cold lip of metal kiss the back of my head. Van Leer, not moving his hand, snuck me a wily glance from the corner of his eye. There was no way this was how it was going down; he was obviously high as a fucking kite, and had no idea what he was doing. And yet, what other choice did I have?_

_Swallowing my fear, I stepped swiftly to the side and curled my free arm back to twist the barrel of the goon’s gun aside, pulling my trigger and watching his counterpart’s brains spray out over the red-and-white plaid on the walls. Turning deftly on my heels, I fired a punch straight to the other henchman’s temple, watching him crumple to the ground before shifting my aim to him and plastering the floor with the insides of his skull. From behind me, the clatter of Van Leer’s pistol rang out seven times as he belted out a savage roar, unloading the whole clip into Vizioso’s head and continuing to dry-fire the empty weapon at his target. Turning to examine the damage, most of his shots had hit the wall, but what remained of the obese don’s upper body lay slumped over in his spaghetti, the blood beginning to mingle with the marinara as it overflowed onto the table. Van Leer dropped his gun, panting behind grated teeth with eyes full of incomprehensible fire._

_“Fuck. FUCK! KEK!” He screamed, stooping down to retrieve the gun and tuck it back into his boot before wheeling to the remains of the henchman behind him and rifling through his pockets._

_“We just…” I stammered._

_“Wallets, Raphie. Any valuables, their guns too. Anything that might be useful.” He pulled out the magazine of the submachine gun and cleared the chamber before placing it across his lap, then made his way over to Vizioso. Not in any position to question him, I took everything off the corpse behind me, and hastily followed him out into the alleyway. We made a mad dash for the car, flinging the weapons in the trunk beneath the wheelchair, and I peeled off into the street without even a glance in the mirrors._

_It was bound to happen eventually. I’d been rolling with a set and carrying a gun practically since the first hairs sprouted on my chin. I’d beaten guys into a pulp, sent them to the hospital, even stabbed a few. Nothing compared to the terrifying rush of endorphins coursing through my veins at that moment. It was something I’d always considered as a possibility, but couldn’t even begin to predict how it would feel. Van Leer’s stupid fucking drug-fueled antics had put us in a situation where we could shoot, or be shot at. The man was my legal guardian, my boss, and up to a certain point, my role model. Now, because of him, I’d just killed a man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shit just got HEAVY y'all. Heavy like a bevy of Chevys. My first murder scene, hope it was decent!
> 
> I've changed a few minor details in previous chapters that affect how the will play out; if anything seems confusing, give it a quick re-read, or point it out in a comment, and I'll do my best to clarify.
> 
> Afrikaans:  
> Kaapstad = Cape Town  
> Geen slaap sedert Saterdag nie = no sleep since Saturday  
> Ja = yes  
> Baie dankie = thank you very much  
> Babbel = chit-chat  
> Veldt = bushland, plains  
> Charo = Indian/South Asian (racist connotations)  
> Bliksem = bastard  
> Kek = shit
> 
> Italian:  
> Capo di tutti capo = boss of all bosses
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and hang in there folks, we got a shitton more coming very soon!


	5. Chapter 5

            The universe was out to destroy me, that much was clear. From the moment I stepped out of negotiations with the Foot Clan, I knew I couldn’t set foot in the tai chi class ever again, and seriously contemplated cancelling my membership at the Y altogether. The risk of running into Leo was too high, and I wasn’t sure that I had any words for the guy after seeing what kind of world he was wrapped up in. It didn’t stop me from thinking about him constantly, but I did what I could to block those deep blue eyes out of my mind. That meant that, rather than brave the gym after work on Thursday, I finally took up Casey on one of his frequent offers to hit a bar with him and April. Normally, money was too tight to justify a night out, but having cut the check for Mike’s tuition as soon as Van Leer’s transfer came in that morning, I noted he had spoiled me with a little extra. The man’s definition of ‘honest pay’ never failed to amuse me; to accomplish what I’d done for him, he essentially could have brought along a cardboard cutout of a stereotypical ‘tough guy’ to the meeting. No doubt, I thought to myself as I checked the balance in my account, trying to make up for past sins.

            Casey’s relationship with April had continued to temper him out over the years, even well past high school. Gone were his days of getting trashed at dive bars and starting scraps in the alleys behind them. Dating an NYU student meant journeying downtown, hitting joints with dress codes and drinks I’d never even heard of, but he loyally followed her like she had him on a leash. Now that the two of them had settled into a relatively cushy place in the Upper East Side, they had a few local haunts that kept them both happy; the Pony Bar had enough craft brews to satisfy April’s curiosity for IPAs, and a huge TV on which Casey could keep up with the Rangers’ desperate effort to clinch a place in the playoffs. The pub was decently casual, enough so that I didn’t feel too out of place in my bike jacket and the jeans I kept under my work clothes. Settling into a booth and ordering something I was assured wasn’t too fruity or eclectic, I caught up with April while Casey’s focus locked onto the hockey game. It seemed awkward at first, having not seen her in a while, but after a few rounds, the conversation felt like we were still back in senior year.

            “I missed this, Raph.” She smiled warmly, setting her beer down on the coaster. “It seems like I never get to see you anymore.”

            “Yeah, guess I kinda fell off the map for a while.” I sighed. “Work’s been wiping me out, and Mike’s just as much of a handful as ever.”

            “Handful is an understatement.” She chuckled, reminiscing on all the years she’d babysat him. “Is everything alright with him? Case told me he’d been expelled again.”

            “Yeah, I sorted it out. Kid’s starting at Cedarwood on Monday.”

            “Cedarwood?” She blinked. “Oh my god.”

            “That’s the school my pops used to threaten to send me if I didn’t bring my grades up.” Casey butted in. “Place is dumb expensive, otherwise he probably would’ve done it.”

            “How on earth can you afford that?” April prodded.

            “I, uh…Got a little help. Van Leer teaches there now.”

            “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “He’s doing better?”

            “Guess so.” I took a long sip from my lager, avoiding her gaze. A tense silence hung between us for a moment. Casey, with a penchant for making awkward situations even worse, piped up.

            “So, Raph, you got any chicks on the radar?” I choked on my drink, barely able to conceal it as a cough.

            “Why, you getting sick of me playing the third wheel?” I smirked, playing it coy. “Nah, nothing serious.”

            “Hey, Ape’s friend Irma is single, and lord knows she’s gonna stay that way unless we set her up with someone.”

            “ _Casey_.” She thumped him in the side with her elbow. “She’s not _that_ bad. Besides, who’s to say Raph isn’t into brains?”

            “Uh, his whole track record, that’s who!” Casey roared with laughter. “Last time I checked, his thing was chiquitas from the barrio. Remember that broad Angel, with the tattooed eyebrows? That still your type, bro?”

            “Hell no.” I growled, slamming the rest of my beer down in one gulp.

            “Well, what is your type?” April asked. “There’s a surprisingly large group of girls in my Ph.D. program. Robotics isn’t a boys’ club anymore.”

            “Hmm.” I stroked at my chin, seriously contemplating how to answer the question. Maybe the alcohol was wearing down my resolve, or maybe I felt comfortable there with the two people I could truly call my friends, but an idea entered my mind to test the waters. “For starters, tall, dark, and lean. Sporty, too, but not like a jock or nothing. Clean-cut, polite, well-spoken. Oh, and blue eyes. Definitely blue eyes.”

            “You’ve been holding out on me, man!” Casey snickered. “C’mon, dude, spill the beans. Where’d you meet her?”

            “Ran into him at the gym.” I muttered, trying my best to come off as careless. At that, Casey erupted with hysterical, knee-slapping laughter, and April eyed me like I’d just told her I was a superhero. When he turned and saw her face, his racket slowly petered out, and he wiped a tear from his eye as his look turned from one of mirth to skepticism.

            “Aw, that’s awesome!” She beamed. “Are we going to meet him?”

            “Like I said, nothing serious.” I waved a palm. “More of a flash-in-the-pan kinda thing.”

            “Wait, seriously?” He struggled to comprehend. “You’re a _fanook_?”

            “ _Casey._ ” She growled severely, jabbing him harder this time. “Raph, I’m honored that you told us.”

            “Woah, hey, I’m not judging!” He hastily sputtered. “You know, one of my pops’ teammates back in the day was like that. Hell of a guy; Uncle Steve, I used to call him. Had the hardest shot in the league. Didn’t walk or talk like a _fanook_ or nothing.”

            “Yeah, well, use that word one more time, and we’ll see who’s got the hardest shot now.”

 

* * *

 

            Once we’d paid our tabs and said our farewells, I hopped on my bike and started my trek back uptown. I didn’t know what possessed me to come out to them on a whim like that, much less tell them anything about Leo. I’d literally spoken to the guy twice; how could he possibly have that size of an effect on me? He had me letting my guard down and spilling the contents of my heart, and that kind of vulnerability left a sour taste in my mouth. Thank god it was only April and Casey to hear it.

            Despite considering the move foolish on my part, I did feel like an anchor had been lifted off my chest. My taste for guys wasn’t a secret I had to take with me to the grave anymore, and my friends had responded reasonably well. Predictably, Casey had peppered me with questions like ‘What about them chicks back in high school?’ and ‘What about all those nights I crashed at your place?’, but for the bonehead I knew he was, he took the news in stride. At the very least, it didn’t seem to change the way he thought of me. Really, that was all I had hoped for. The next day at work, he gave me the same nod and smile when I walked in, assigned me to finish up work on the same cars I’d started the day before, and didn’t bring up anything sensitive in our casual conversation throughout our shifts. It was just like any other day.

            That is, until the Lexus pulled in. A blacked-out LS 500, dark tints on the windows and temp plates mounted in the slots on the bumpers, showed up shortly after lunch. It wasn’t an uncommon model to roll in; gaudy luxury sedans were a staple among the garage’s usual clientele, and those who valued practicality over noticeability gravitated toward Japanese marques. However, something about this one seemed familiar, as though I’d seen it at least once before. I went to the parking lot to greet the owner and ask what needed done, and as he stepped out, my stomach turned upside down as I realized who he was.

            “Small world!” Leo beamed cheerfully. This was my first time seeing him in regular street clothes, and in the back of my mind, I was impressed at his ability to blend into the city so quickly; he wore a trim jacket of black leather, designer jeans that clung so tightly to his thighs I thought they might burst through the seams, and a pair of well-oiled Italian loafers that looked fresh off the shelf. To the untrained eye, he was your standard Upper East Side new money.

            “I missed you at the gym last night.”

            “Uh-huh.” I grumbled. “What do you need done?”

            “Oh, just an alignment, I think. The potholes here are a little more intense than back in Tokyo.” He chuckled sheepishly. “Not even a month old, and already she’s pulling to the left pretty hard.”

            “Right.”

            “Mister Hamato, right?” Casey’s voice boomed over my shoulder as he came running toward us. He had a routine of schmoozing up to first-time clients, something his dad had taught him to earn repeat customers. “You’re a little early. I like that.”

            “Thank you for taking me on such short notice.” He delivered a short bow with folded hands.

            “Wait, Raph, is that…” Casey eyed Leo up and down curiously, and I had already started kicking myself before he spoke his next word. “That’s the guy, ain’t it?”

            “Excuse me?” Leo’s blissful visage shifted to one of wariness.

            “Oh, nothing, Mister Hamato. Raph just told me that you guys…”

            “Had met somewhere before.” I launched an elbow backward into Casey’s gut, leaving him keeled over behind me as I ushered Leo around to the other side of the lot, in front of a closed bay door where Casey couldn’t eavesdrop.

            “What did you tell him?” Leo murmured concernedly. “It wasn’t about…business, was it?”

            “No. Casey ain’t involved in that shit no more.” I seethed. “And neither am I. _This_ is our business now.” I gestured to the garage beside us.

            “But just the other day, you were…”

            “Helping out an old friend. Other than him, I don’t talk to people who’re still in the game. So consider it a gift I’m speaking to you at all right now.”

            “I see.” He looked glum, eyes locked on mine as he tried to peer into my soul. “It’s because of your brother, isn’t it?”

            “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I stammered, caught off-guard.

            “You got out of the lifestyle because you have someone depending on you.” Our staring contest ended, as he looked wistfully past me into the distance. “I’ve always wished I could do the same, for Donnie’s sake. You’re a very honorable man, Raph.”

            “Means a lot coming from a gang lord.” I grumbled. “Just…Gimme the keys, and get outta here, okay?”

            “Okay.” He muttered, sounding pained as he stretched his hand out, and I snatched the keys carefully, without making the slightest brush of contact with him. “I know this sounds foolish now but…I had hoped we could be friends.”

            “Anyone doing ‘business’ with the Purple Dragons ain’t a friend of mine.” I growled, my face only inches from his. “You got no idea what those bastards have done to me.”

            Having nothing left to say, I turned on my heels and tossed the keys to Casey as I stomped back into the garage.

            “What was that, some kinda lovers’ quarrel?” He chuckled, following me inside.

            “Go fuck yourself, Case.”

 

* * *

 

            _If Van Leer had been pulling a disappearing act before our little ‘incident’ with Don Vizioso and the Fulci twins, then his behavior afterward could only be described as invisible. One would think his conduct during the whole affair would scare him into moderating his drug habit, but from the rare occasions I saw him during the subsequent month, I gathered that he’d essentially been on a constant binge. His blooming paranoia now justified by the hordes of Five Families gangsters wanting his head on a pike, the old man had taken to hiding out in the safety of their traditional enemies’ turf, mainly his and Steranko’s laboratory in Brighton Beach. Of course, in the interest of his own investment, the menacing Russian had installed his own guards in the building, and given Van Leer one rule to abide by: no cooking while high._

_This was a logical rule, in my own opinion, but it started to make Van Leer feel like a prisoner. Working by day, he soon took to spending his nights in trap houses and drug dens around the city, never sleeping in the same place twice if at all. I could count the number of times I’d seen him in the house that month on one hand, and each time, he stayed for no more than an hour. Mike had begun asking questions that I couldn’t come up with answers for, clearly noticing how odd the guy had been acting, and the amount of time I had to spend watching him was seriously cutting into my activity with the Jefferson Park boys. April, as always, was on speed-dial, but calling her over every night didn’t sit right with me, even if she’d been willing to come._

_One night, after Mike had already gone to bed, I found myself in the basement, taking out the aggression I forced myself to repress all day on the punching bag. I’d given up bothering to contact Van Leer, assuming he’d been getting product to Jefferson Park by alternate channels, and being cut out like that had me feeling useless. If he’d been making any more deals, I could only imagine who was serving as his right hand once I was out of the equation. His weasel of a lab assistant, Baxter? Some thick-necked Russian grunt? Or someone entirely new?_

_My focus was shaken by the vibration of my phone in the pocket of my gym shorts. Seeing an unfamiliar number, I hesitated for a moment, but took it anyways._

_“Raphie.” A familiar voice, tinged with pain and melancholy, began before I could say a word. “There’s a key in pantry, on the bottom shelf, taped to the wall at the back left corner.”_

_“Good to hear from you too, Leatherhead.” I sighed sarcastically. “Mike and I are still alive, thanks for asking.”_

_“Use the key to get into my room. In the closet, there’s a spare set of crutches, and in the drawer of the nightstand, there’s a black leather pouch. I need you to bring them both to Hester and Eldridge. I’m in the room facing the street on the third floor, first window on the left.”_

_“The fuck are you doing in Chinatown?” I already knew the literal answer to the question, but there’s a million places one can shoot crank in the city; to do it in the heart of Purple Dragons turf was an oddity even considering the rest of his behavior as of late._

_“Time is of the essence, laaitie. Hurry.” He hung up, and I was left seriously considering pretending the whole call had never happened. However, he sounded more desperate than usual, and if nothing else, getting a hold of him would give me a chance to scold him for the bullshit he’d been putting me through._

_Finding the key exactly where he specified, I entered his room to find it in shambles. The bedsheets were in a pile on the floor, intermingling with the laundry scattered across it. In spite of the box fan pushing air out the window, the place reeked of chemicals, likely coming from the jumble of glassware littered across his bureau. The long list of things I planned on reaming the guy out about got a little longer. I grabbed what he had asked for, not even bothering to check what was inside the pouch, and dashed into my own room. Armor, jacket, knuckles, knife, gloves, and gun; better to be overly cautious when entering the whirlwind that had become Leatherhead’s life._

_Sprinting down the hallway, I backtracked a few steps as I passed Mike’s room. Even though he was already twelve, his habit of leaving the bedroom door cracked to let a sliver of light in from the hall persisted. I listened for the gentle, steady rhythm of his breathing, confirming he was sound asleep, before continuing out the front door. When it was locked, I set my sights on a cab slowly cruising down the block. Whatever I was heading into, I hoped I was ready for it._

* * *

 

            As if the universe hadn’t been cruel enough to me by bringing Leo to the garage that day, he reappeared in the night. My dream played out similarly to the reality of the afternoon at first; he pulled up in his Lexus, hopping out and setting his sights directly on me. Neither of us exchanged words as he entered the garage, fierce determination replacing the casual cordiality I’d previously seen. I was frozen in place, unable to resist as he slammed me against the trunk of a Mustang and began ravaging my mouth with needy kisses. My lips yielded to the explorations of his tongue until it was caressing my own, and his hands tugged at the zipper of my coveralls. I gripped at his shoulders to push him away, and felt the sinewy cords of muscle tense against my futile resistance. Accepting my fate, I tilted my head back against the cool metal and let out a low moan as his kissing migrated down my jawbone and throat.

            In one slick move, he planted his hands on my glutes and heaved upward until I was seated on the trunk, then yanked my work outfit down, and began unfastening the fly of my jeans. Knowing what came next, I let my own fingers gravitate toward his waist and mirrored him. Once his fly was undone, I could feel the silky fabric of his boxer briefs beginning to tent, and gave the hot meat beneath them a lewd squeeze. He purred with lust, and shimmied my jeans down my thighs until he had free access to grope my rear like it was his property. Sucking and nipping at my collarbone, his thumbs snuck beneath the waistband of my underwear, touching me in ways another person never had done before. I shuddered as one palm wrapped around the shaft of my cock, gliding upward to the sensitive head and clouding my mind as a million nerve endings fired. With a quick pull, my trunks were down, and my swelling erection flopped out against the hem of my undershirt.

            Leo took a short step back, cerulean eyes full of fearless desire, and tugged down his own underwear, revealing the prize underneath: nearly a foot of veined mahogany, bobbing up and down with each heartbeat, and weeping a glistening pearl of pre from its slit. In a flash, he dove back in, locking his lips with mine hungrily as he lined his manhood up with my virgin hole. I winced as I began to feel the burn of being stretched beyond anything I’d ever dared to try before while he carefully entered me, but when he finally sunk in to the hilt, my body was ready. He pulled out at a snail’s pace, the lip of his bulbous head raking against my prostate and sending fire through the base of my cock and up my spine. Picking up the pace with each thrust like a steam engine leaving the station, he pummeled me with his shaft, each time striking that sweet spot at such an angle that pleasures I’d never imagined were building up inside me. Without even laying a finger on my own needful manhood, the force of his assault was making my muscles start to contract, and my toes begin to curl, until…

            I snapped upright in bed, sweat dripping down my forehead. Still unsure of my surroundings, half of my mind considering the dream a reality, my eyes drifted to the dim glow of the alarm clock on my nightstand. 5:23 AM; far earlier than I ever woke up for work, but giving me nowhere near enough time to get significant rest if I fell back asleep. I peeled my sheets back to reveal a stained and musky pair of boxer briefs, the throbbing erection therein beginning to recede. Despite having showered right before bed, it was clear I couldn’t start my day covered in spunk, so I rolled myself out of bed and trudged out of my room toward the bathroom.

            I was a sick, sick guy, I thought to myself, as the warm water and steam began to pour forth from the showerhead. It had been a solid four or five years since my last wet dream, and I no longer had the excuse of being a stereotypically horny teenager to write it off. Then again, I had the same number of sexual partners as I did back then: zero. With no outlet besides my own hand, it was possible that my body was getting desperate. I knew for a fact that my mind was; it had just cooked up a fantasy where a guy I’d seen only a handful of times, one I knew to be standing at the helm of a criminal empire and had sworn to never speak to again, was forcing me down and railing me like I was some helpless broad. Playing the scene back in my head involuntarily, I could feel myself getting hard again, and moved my lathering of soap northward to let it recede. This guy had me under some kind of spell, that much was clear.

            Once the scent of sweat and cum had disappeared, I dried off and turned the coffee maker on before sliding into some sweatpants and a jacket. Taking a piping hot mug out onto the balcony with me, I slumped into one of the rickety folding chairs we kept out there, and fumbled around in my jacket pocket to find my lighter and pack of Camels. With a click and a flash, the smoke came flowing down my throat, and I stared out onto the street as the pastel glow of sunrise began to paint the sky between buildings. There I sat, thinking of both nothing and everything, burning through some blurry amount of time and cigarettes until the scratch of the sliding door behind me shook me from my introspection.

            “Someone’s an early bird.” Mike yawned groggily, plopping himself into the chair beside me.

            “Could say the same for you.” I took a long drag, puffing the smoke from my nostrils. “Figure you only got a few more days to enjoy sleeping late.”

            “Haven’t been sleeping too well since I stopped blazing.” He stated. “Dreams are all mad vivid and shit.”

            “I know how that goes.” I grunted, washing the soot from my mouth with a sip of coffee. For a long moment, the two of us sat in silence, listening to the never-ending sounds of the city begin to grow as traffic picked up. “Wait, you quit smoking pot?”

            “Ch-yeah, dude. Haven’t burned since my last day at Saint Tom’s.” He stood up to head back inside. “We all gotta straighten up eventually, right?”

            “You’re a good kid, Mike.” I flicked what remained of my cigarette over the balcony and followed him in.

 

* * *

 

            _Of all the neighborhoods that my trade had taken me to over the years, Chinatown was probably the least frequently visited. Not only was it on the opposite end of Manhattan from our home turf, but the only outfit there we did business with was the Ghost Shadows, along with their bosses in the On Leong Tong. When their share of the market started getting muscled in on by the ever-expanding Purple Dragons, I had even less reason to venture all the way downtown. Italians aside, the Purple Dragons were the biggest thorn in our sides; we had successfully blocked them out of Harlem and much of uptown, but wherever their product was coming from, they got it at a price and in quantities that threatened our business more and more by the month. What’s more, Mike and I had been born and raised nearby, in the Lower East Side, and the last thing I needed was to dredge up old memories from the brief time we lived with our mom._

_Hopping out of the cab with Van Leer’s crutches in hand, I found myself surrounded by businesses with Chinese characters on the banners, half of them lacking any corresponding English. Clueless as to where exactly he could be hiding out, one building caught my eye: a narrow brick structure, bearing some shuttered-up camera store on its ground floor, with a jumble of poorly-crafted graffiti plastered across its front. What appeared to be a slithering dragon had been sprayed onto the rusting metal shutter in violet ink. Overhead, a window on the third floor had been left cracked open. I swiveled my head around to ensure no one was watching before jumping up and grasping the ladder to the fire escape. It creaked downward under my weight, and I threw myself up the rungs, hunching low to keep myself unseen by whoever was on the second floor. Up the flight of stairs I dashed, until I reached the ajar window, and pushed it open to step in._

_The scene that greeted me was an ugly one. Wallpaper peeled in the cramped, dingy room, which reeked of smoke and sex. Strewn across the floor were clothes, syringes, little bags, and a crimson-tinged push knife. Van Leer, looking as pale as a ghost, lay mostly disrobed on a stained mattress, pushing a wad of bloodied fabric against his abdomen, and by the door, the limp body of a nude woman was slowly bubbling dark scarlet from an incision across her throat onto the carpet beneath her._

_“Where’s the pouch?” He groaned, dark rings around his eyes._

_“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing here now?” I steamed, reaching into my jacket and tossing him the black leather object._

_“What better place to hide from the mob than the last place they’d think to find me?” He unzipped the pouch, pulling out yet another syringe, along with a tourniquet. “At least, that’s what I thought until the bitch tried to fucking stab me.”_

_“Looks like she did more than try.” I noted, watching blood begin to ooze from his midsection as he stopped compressing the wound to tie the rubber around his bicep. “You wouldn’t rather have me bring a first aid kit? Or a needle and thread? Hell, a Band-Aid would be more helpful than another hit of ice.”_

_“Can’t get out of here if my head’s not back in gear.” He purred once the needle made entry into his vein. “Lost the car. Lost the wheelchair. Lost the rest of my stash, my wallet, my phone. Fucking everything. Need some energy to come up with a plan to clean up this mess.”_

_“Good thing you got your little chemistry set back home, then.” I grumbled. “Whatever happened to ‘nothing in the house’, huh? What if Mike saw that shit?”_

_“The boy’s not getting into a locked room. Besides, I’m a scientist; as far as he knows, I’m cooking Pop Rocks in there.” He pulled the syringe out and tossed it to the floor, reaching for the crutches in my hand. “Now, go through the kreef’s shit and find a MetroCard or something while I get dressed. We’ve probably got fifteen minutes before her pimp comes knocking.”_

_“You’re a real class act, Leatherhead.” I spat his name, reluctantly grabbing the denim cutoffs from the carpet and feeling around in the pockets. Something thin and plastic crinkled at my touch, but as I pulled it out, it wasn’t a subway card that stared back at me. Instead, I held a baggie, black on one side, and the translucent opposite face revealing the tiny mound of beige powder inside. Stamped on the outside was a lilac image of an eastern dragon, curled into a circle with its claws pointing toward the middle. My grip loosened, and I dropped the both the smack and the shorts as I turned back toward the window._

_“You know what? Fuck this.” I uttered, stepping back out onto the fire escape. “I’m done.”_

_“What do you mean, done?” He murmured, struggling to pull his pants up while leaning on a crutch and compressing his bleeding incision._

_“Out of the game. Washing my hands. Going home, which you better not do until you get your shit straight.” I growled. “I’m throwing out your little meth lab, too, so don’t even think of setting foot in the house unless you’re planning on acting like a sober, responsible legal guardian.”_

_Before he could protest, I slammed the window shut and made my way down to the street, where I sprinted away from the drug den as quickly as my legs would allow. Dipping into a dark alley a few blocks away, I stripped off my jacket and disposed of my weapons and armor in a dumpster. As an afterthought, I pulled the burner phone out of my jacket pocket and watched it clatter among the bags of trash before letting the lid close with a bang. Clean of the physical implements of my past sins, I continued my mad dash toward the nearest subway station._

_The fact it took me so long to piece the puzzle together left me even more furious with myself. Heroin, Purple Dragons, a shitty building in a downtown ghetto, and the lifeless corpse of a young lady on the floor. Like a grainy home video, my mind played back a fuzzy memory that had long been repressed in the depths of my subconscious. A bright-eyed eight-year-old, tangle of black curls bouncing as he waved goodbye to his school friends and hopped off the bus. The ascent up to the fourth story of the tenement, where the door had been left unlocked as always._

_“Ma, I’m home!” A high-pitched shout echoed through the dingy apartment. Silence came as a response, until the pitter-patter of clumsy footsteps made their way into the kitchen. A three-year old, unkempt shock of auburn waves framing his icy blue eyes, came toddling into view._

_“Shh…” The younger boy pressed a finger to his lips. “Mommy sleeping.” With a naïve lack of suspicion and panic, the older one tiptoed down the hallway, carefully avoiding the floorboards known to creak as he approached the ajar door of his mother’s room._

_“Psst.” He whispered, peeking into the bedroom to find a young woman lying on her side atop the sheets. Her long brown hair flowed among the pillows messily, and the usual sun-kissed hue of her skin had turned to a sickly hue of blue, almost as pale as her younger son’s eyes. Even to an elementary school student, it was apparent something was horribly wrong._

_“Ma?” The child stepped hesitantly toward the bed, tugging at his mother’s forearm and recoiling at the coldness of her skin. His heart began to race, completely unaware as to what could have happened. He thought back on the brief glimpses of crime dramas he’d seen when she fell asleep with the television on, and held his breath as he reached up to her face and delicately pulled an eyelid back between his fingertips. An iris of lime green stared up at him, the same vibrant shade as his own, and constricted so tightly it seemed as though not even a pin could pass through the pupil. Stepping back in shock, the boy felt a crunch under his sneakers, and looked down to see the plastic tube of a syringe shattered underfoot. Stooping down to investigate the foreign object, he noted a small plastic bag lying on the carpet beside it. It contained some sticky tan grains, looking like brown sugar, visible beneath the menacing caricature of a dragon marked in purple ink on the bag’s exterior._

_I gritted my teeth and blinked back tears as the signs for the subway came into view. How many mothers’ blood were on my hands, having helped to push the same poison that had taken my own from me? How many boys had I forced into the same fate as mine, perpetuating a pattern that shattered innocent lives? How many children were drifting through the hellfire of the orphanages and foster system because of my own actions? How could I have been such a fool, playing right back into this vicious cycle?_

_It all ended that night, I vowed. I was stepping away from the only world I’d ever known, and doing whatever it took to keep Mike and I as far from it as we could possibly be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter was heavy, this shit is straight-up concentrated dark matter. 
> 
> I hope the flashback-within-a-flashback in this last section made sense; I had considered writing it as its own section, but there's something satisfying about keeping all the flashbacks in linear order chronologically.
> 
> Maybe now that there's smut in this story, people will actually read it! Lmao I'm getting salty here, this shit may damn well be my magnum opus!
> 
> Fun facts for the day:
> 
> Fanook = Italian-American slang for gay (no comment as to whether Casey is Italian, but it’s a New York thing)
> 
> Casey’s dad’s teammate = Stéphane Richer, a player for the Devils in the early ‘90s widely rumored to not be straight
> 
> Kreef = Afrikaans for loose woman/whore
> 
> Also, this is for previous chapters, but the name Ashi Industries? Ashi = foot in Japanese. Sly, right?
> 
> Many thanks to all who read, kudos, and comment! You keep me going!


	6. Chapter 6 (Michelangelo's Perspective)

            By the time my impromptu vacation ran up, I had honestly become so bored that I found myself looking forward to school for the first time in my life. Toward the beginning, the lifestyle of waking up at noon, sitting around playing video games for hours on end, and only leaving the apartment to run deliveries for Antonio’s Pizza-Rama four days a week or shred at the skate park with my boys for the other three, was pure paradise. When the second week rolled around, I was practically crawling up the walls; it would have been nice to keep going to the Y with Raph, just to burn off some energy, but like he did with countless other things in life, the reason for skipping tai chi wasn’t elaborated on beyond a gruff ‘we ain’t going.’ As per our usual routine, I didn’t even bother trying to milk a real answer out of him. Besides, one of those many unexplained mysteries was about to come to an end: after years of hearing nothing about the guy, I was finally going to see Doctor V.

            The day after I was expelled from Saint Tom’s, Raph told me casually he’d got a hold of our old foster dad, and worked something out with him so I could get my diploma at the school where he taught. The way he informed me, it was like he hadn’t spent five years shooting down any attempt at talking about the guy. Half a decade had gone by, and all my questions about him, like why he’d gone from a grade-A father figure to a sketchy bug-eyed deadbeat in what felt like no time at all, or where he’d disappeared off to for the majority of our last year living in his house, were left unanswered. Obviously, Raph knew more than he let on, but I was looking forward to potentially getting some clarity from the source himself.

            That aside, Cedarwood seemed like an interesting place, once I shook off its reputation for being a ‘slow kid’ school. For starters, I could ditch the stuffy uniform that I’d despised putting on for the entirety of my time at Saint Tom’s. Secondly, I wouldn’t have to wake up at the crack of dawn and take the subway downtown to get to school anymore; it was almost a straight shot across Central Park away, a fifteen-minute skate if I hustled. And lastly, the place looked like a goddamn castle, an old mansion of red brick with huge round spires on the corners of the building. For a school with only two hundred students, Cedarwood was huge, and according to its website, each class only had ten kids in it. The idea seemed alien compared to the thirty-odd kids crammed into every classroom at Saint Tom’s, but I hoped a quieter environment might give me a chance to focus on my work for once.

            Monday finally rolled around, and after my ride through the brisk April morning, I found myself in Cedarwood’s atrium. The secretary, a cheery old lady with thick glasses, signed me in, and escorted me toward the principal’s office. That made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle at first, but seeing my exasperated face, she assured me that it was just a formality for new students. For the first time, I walked into a principal’s office without expecting a chewing out and a punishment! He was a bald, somewhat serious-looking dude, but shook my hand with a smile and bid me to sit in the comfortable chair opposite his desk as he closed the door.

            The spiel he launched into was a little tiresome, but I took away a few main points. Cedarwood, he explained, was neither a reform school, an alternative school, or a special needs school, but rather a mix of all three. He and the teachers I’d been assigned to had reviewed my transcripts, grades, and some coursework from both of my previous high schools, and came to a conclusion both welcome and shockingly accurate: I wasn’t being stimulated enough by the curriculum. It was a common denominator for many of the students there, be they ADHD like myself, autistic, developmentally disabled, or just plain bored, and the school had loads of experience crafting lesson plans for kids just like me. From a selection of my old classwork that I’d put in serious work on, like the essays in Creative Writing at Pierce High, or the term paper in Music History at Saint Tom’s, they could tell I wasn’t stupid, which was a huge relief to hear. The classes they planned on putting me into wouldn’t be easy, but they would hopefully be interesting enough that I wouldn’t disappear midday to smoke behind the cafeteria, at the very least; I was in a cohort of seniors whose coursework had been tailored to be challenging, relevant, and as exciting as one could expect school to possibly be.

            Our discussion having taken up the entire first period, I was shown to the next class on my schedule: Photography. An art credit was one of the few categories of class I hadn’t at least attempted in my other schools, and of the applicable classes I could choose from, using a camera and darkroom seemed marginally cooler than having to talk about old paintings by dead Italian guys, or making clay dolls and teacups. When I walked into the classroom, I was warmly greeted by the teacher, a long-haired ex-hippie type with two earrings in each of his lobes and yin-yang posters over his desk. He asked me to introduce myself to the class.

            “Uh…’Sup, dudes? Name’s Michelangelo Tartaruga; just call me Mike, though. I live in East Harlem, um…” I swiveled on the balls of my feet, trying to think of anything interesting to say. “I’m into skateboarding, basketball…Oh, and my cat! He’ll probably end up being what I take most of my pictures of.”

            “Radical, dude!” The teacher laughed. “There’s an empty seat right there next to Don; I promise he doesn’t bite.”

            Not having really looked at the students in the class during my little speech, the familiar name pricked my ears up, and I looked to the seat farthest into the corner in the back row to see a lanky black-haired guy hunched over his half of the two-seater table, his narrow brown eyes focused studiously on the pages in his binder. When I pulled my chair out and plopped down next to him, he slowly turned his head and regarded me with curiosity.

            “Mike.” He stated flatly, keeping his voice low as the teacher began pulling up a slideshow on the projector.          

            “Action Don-son!” I cheered, giving him a grin. “Good to see you again, broski.”

            From what I gathered, the class seemed like a piece of cake. Once a week, a two-page essay was due, and we could write it about any of the photos the teacher showed us on the board. Also due once a week was a picture of our own, which would be graded on subject, composition, and form. I was skeptical at first, having never snapped anything more artistic than a well-composed selfie, but how hard could it be to find a killer shot in New York? We lived in the most interesting city on the planet; with the old film camera the teacher lent me, I felt like it was only a matter of time before something worth a shot came across my path.

            Throughout the lecture, Don was almost entirely silent. I watched him taking notes at a furious pace, copying every word that came out of the teacher’s mouth, and somehow finding time to squeeze in some observations of his own. His handwriting looked like a fancy, computer-printed formal font, at least the portions that were in English; every few paragraphs, a word or two of Japanese would find its way in. The dude was like a human transcription machine; I was so captivated by his style of notetaking that I barely took more than a couple bullet points down for each photo, though thankfully, the slideshow would be posted online for review.

            The last third of the class was basically free time for kids to work on their photos or essays, and the teacher showed me the details of how to use the darkroom and scanner for when I had to do the same. Once we had finished, I took my place back over next to Don, who appeared to be putting the finishing touches on an essay.

            “So, how do you like it here, dude?” I asked, once he reached a point where it looked like he was done.

            “That’s difficult to judge at this point.” He noted, eyes still locked on his notebook. “It’s my second week.”

            “Oh, word? So you’re a rookie too! I hope they didn’t haze you too hard.” I chuckled, but the humor seemed lost on him. “At least this teacher seems mad chill. You seen his posters?”

            “He isn’t a Taoist.” He turned the page to a blank sheet. “Though he does seem quite well-versed in different varieties of Eastern philosophy for a Westerner.”

            “He isn’t a what?” I cocked an eyebrow.

            “Taoist: a follower of the school of thought promulgated by Laozi in the sixth century BC.” He rattled off, as if talking about the color of the sky. “The concepts of yin and yang were first elucidated in his tome, the Daodejing, although some scholars believe they may predate the philosophy entirely.”

            “Woah.” I gasped. “So, is that where the guys who made Avatar got those fish at the North Pole from?”

            “Tui and La?” Finally, he broke his concentration on the papers in front of him, and turned to face me. “Well, their names mean ‘push’ and ‘pull’ in Mandarin, but yes, they do approximate the concept.”

            “Dude.” I stammered. “Is your middle name ‘Wikipedia’, by any chance?”

            “It’s ‘Nori’, if we’re going by traditional European naming customs.”

            Our conversation continued all the way through the remainder of class, and once the bell rang, he led me down to the cafeteria. I could hardly believe my eyes when I laid my sights on the buffet table at the back: a complete salad bar, rice, pasta, tofu, grilled chicken, steamed veggies, and at the very end, a treasure that threatened to make my heart burst: personal-sized flatbread pizzas! Whatever crazy price Raph was paying to send me here, it became worth it as soon as I placed the pizza on my tray and let its sweet, savory tang waft into my nose.

            “Tell me they have this every day, dude.” I moaned with a full mouth once we found a table in the corner of the room.

            “Unfortunately not.” He popped a piece of tofu into his mouth neatly with his chopsticks. “The specialty items on the end are rotated along a bi-weekly schedule.”

            “Gotta keep it fresh, I guess.”

            “Well, there are forty different nationalities in the student body, if the school’s official publications are to be believed. They seem to make an effort to cater toward everyone.”

            “That’s why you’re chilling on the boring stuff, then.” I gestured to his plate, containing equal portions of tofu and white rice. “A little taste of Japan here in the Big Apple?”

            “Mostly, yes. My mother was Scottish, but their cuisine is…less than appetizing to me.”

            “Oh dude, don’t they eat, like, ground up sheep guts?” I stuck my tongue out and made a gagging sound.

            “Haggis.” He shuddered, tightly shutting his eyes. “An unspeakable thing.”

            After lunch, Don and I had to part ways; he was off to some advanced calculus class for third period, while I was stuck in Statistics. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the stats I’d been studying at Saint Tom’s; these guys focused more on things that I could actually apply to real life. For example, one problem focused on finding trends in the scoring habits of basketball teams that could predict a playoff appearance. Right at moments I’d usually find myself drifting off and getting distracted, we were presented with new problems or taught a new topic, as though the teacher could read my mind. If I’d gone here for all four years of high school, I thought to myself, I’d have made honor roll every semester!

            Finally, the fourth and final period of the day rolled around: Chemistry. Making a mad dash down the hallway to get there as early as possible, I burst through the door to find Doctor V rifling through some papers on his desk. Streaks of grey and white had appeared in his hair and beard, both much longer than when last I’d seen him, and his face bore many more wrinkles than I had once known. Peering up through his glasses, I watched his eyes light up with joy.

            “My little _klipspringer._ ” He beamed, and I ran toward him to wrap him up in a tight hug. “Not so little now, though. I used to be taller than you, even sitting down! And what’s this?” He scratched at the few scraggly rust-hued hairs sprouting from my chin.

            “Puberty, Doc.” I declared proudly, planting my hands on my hips. “We all gotta grow up sometime.”

            “Don’t do it too quickly, now, _laaitie_ , or before you know it, you’ll look like me.”

            “You’re talking crazy, dude. You look good; got a real George Clooney thing going on.”

            “Flattery can get you far in life, son, but it won’t improve your marks in my class.” He snickered.

            As the other students trickled in, we continued to chat, keeping it light and superficial. He asked me if we’d been taking good care of Klunk, I told him about my gig at the pizza place, and he told me a few things he’d learned about the school since he started teaching there at the beginning of the academic year. That still left almost a five-year hole in my knowledge about where the guy had been and what he’d been doing, but regardless, I was happy to see him apparently back to his former self, albeit a bit more calmed down and relaxed. To my pleasant surprise, Don came into the classroom as well, and when the bell sounded to announce the start of class, I took up my seat next to him.

            Doctor V’s way of keeping chemistry interesting was making the class almost entirely hands-on. The unit the class had been studying the week prior was on solutes and solvents, so to demonstrate those principles, we were going to extract caffeine from coffee beans. That meant grinding the beans, soaking them in ethyl acetate, then doing an acid-base extraction to remove everything but the caffeine, and boiling off the solvent. His explanation of the theory behind it made my head start to spin, but I pieced together what little I remembered of the chemistry I’d taken at my old school to try and make sense of it. Regardless, with Don as my lab partner, I couldn’t lose.

            Each lab bench was given a coffee grinder and about a cup’s worth of beans. The other groups plugged theirs in and set about grinding, but as I did the same, I noticed Don’s face was scrunched up in obvious discomfort.

            “Kinda noisy, huh?” I offered, and he nodded his head vigorously without shifting his expression. “Just step out in the hall for a sec, dude; Doctor V is chill about it. I’ll grab you when it’s all clear.”

            Without a second of hesitation, Don burst up from his chair and high-tailed it out the door. Concerned, Doctor V wheeled his way over to my bench.

            “Is something wrong?” He murmured.

            “Loud noises.” I explained. “They’re _not_ the dude’s thing.” He nodded, and went back to patrolling the classroom, asking students if they had any questions. Once everyone had finished grinding their beans, and the machines were safely back in their drawers, I went out into the hall. Don was standing close by, his back against the lockers, hands clasped over his ears, and eyes still shut tightly. Hesitantly, I tapped him on the shoulder with my finger, and watched him jump like he’d just been shocked with static.

            “Grinding’s done. Come on, Einstein, let’s go cook up some caffeine!”

            “Okay.” He muttered, following me back in. “I apologize for leaving.”

            “Don’t be sorry, bro!” I assured him. “I totally get it. I used to spook easy too; tends to happen when you grow up with everyone fighting and screaming at each other all the time.”

            “My family is very quiet.” He mused, flipping through his textbook until he found something relevant to the experiment. “Thankfully.”

            The assignment was lengthy, and had nearly a dozen different steps, but whenever I was visibly lost, Don took the time to explain exactly what we were doing, and why we were doing it. By the time the period was almost done, I felt like I actually knew why acids crystallized bases, how a polar solvent worked best to extract a polar solute, and why the ethyl acetate made the whole room smell like fruit punch. I’m sure Doctor V could have helped me understand if I asked, but to me, it practically seemed like Don was the teacher.

            Toward the end, we had a bit of a contest with the other groups to see which had extracted the most caffeine from our samples. The amount of caffeine in an average cup of coffee, Doctor V explained, was about a hundred milligrams, though he didn’t expect any of us to come quite that close to the total amount. Lo and behold, when our turn came to weigh our sample, the old man couldn’t believe his eyes: ninety-seven milligrams! That certainly earned us some bonus points, and for what had to be the first time in my academic career, I got an A on an assignment in a science class. At this rate, I’d have a Nobel prize by graduation.

            The last bell sounded, and with a warm smile, Van Leer packed up his papers and left almost as quickly as the other students. It left me a little disappointed; I’d really wanted to catch up with him some more. I wasn’t left completely alone, though; Don was practically attached to me at the hip, accompanying me down the hall and out of the atrium, onto the steps of the school where the afternoon sun warmed my skin.

            “I don’t know, dude. Stats was cool, but I’m pretty sure the homework’s gonna kill me.” I griped.

            “I completed Statistics in seventh grade.” He noted. “I’d be happy to help you, if you’d like to come to my apartment.”

            “Uh…” I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t have work on Mondays, but I did tell some of my boys I’d meet them at the skate park. Then again, I’d seen them enough over the past couple weeks, and trying to resist blazing with them when they rolled up had been getting more difficult by the day. Besides, Don was a cool dude, and it didn’t seem like he had much else going on, so I’d feel bad leaving him high and dry. “Yeah bro, for sure! Where’s your digs at?”

            “80th Street and East End Avenue.”

            “Word, word. That’s like an hour’s walk though. Even longer on the subway.”

            “Oh, I don’t take the train.” He started walking down the steps as a beast of a black sedan pulled up to the curb, and pulled open the passenger door. From the driver seat, a familiar figure in a leather jacket tipped his mirrored shades down to look at Don.

            “ _Kyō no gakkō wa dōdeshita ka?_ ” Leo asked.

            “ _Yoi. Watashi wa yūjin o ie ni mochikaeru koto wa dekimasu ka?_ ” Don hopped into the seat, holding his backpack tightly on his lap.

            “ _Tomodachi?_ ” Leo turned to look me over, then smiled at me. “Mike! I had no idea you went to school here!”

            “Neither did I, ‘til today.” I opened the back door and slid in, tossing my book bag in the empty seat beside me. “Sweet ride, dude.”

            “Just got it out of the shop on Friday. Some big tough guy down at Hat Trick Garage fixed it up for me.” He chuckled, waiting for me to buckle my seatbelt before cautiously rolling out into the street.

            “Raph? Yeah, cars are just about the only thing he can do right. Not much room in that thick skull for anything else.”

            “That reminds me: does your brother know you’re coming over? I wouldn’t want him to get worried.”

            “Dude gets worried no matter where I go. Besides, I’m legally an adult, I can hang after school if I want to.”

            “If you say so.” I could see him chew at his lip nervously in the mirror, but paid it no mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, hitting y'all with a chapter two days in a row! This one's a bit briefer than past updates, probably because there's no flashbacks. I toyed around with the idea of inserting one or two, but didn't quite know how to shoehorn them in properly.
> 
> I hope inserting a Mike-centric chapter isn't too jarring! I figured a little fluffy positivity would switch up the tempo a bit, hopefully for the better. Plus, I really wanted a chance to characterize Donnie a bit further, and seeing the B-Team interact in a school setting gave me ample opportunity to do so.
> 
> As I've mentioned in previous notes, an autistic character is something I feel the need to tread lightly when writing, because I don't want to disrespect anyone in the process. Most of Don's 'red lights' and 'green lights', I've co-opted from my own little brother, as well as one of my neighbors during childhood, both of whom are autistic as well. I know that 'hyperfocal savant-like intelligence' and 'not liking loud noises' and such are quite overplayed tropes, but I feel the best way to do the character justice is by keeping him true to my templates. Plus, autistic or not, he's still Don, who's both a genius and somewhat timid in nearly every incarnation of the Turts.
> 
> A little crash course in Japanese:
> 
> Kyō no gakkō wa dōdeshita ka? = How was school today?
> 
> Yoi. Watashi wa yūjin o ie ni mochikaeru koto wa dekimasu ka? = Good. Can I bring a friend home?
> 
> Tomodachi? = A friend?
> 
> As ever, I use only the finest Google Translate when writing Japanese, so do correct me if I've botched it.
> 
> Infinite thanks for your reads and attention! Can't wait to show you what's next!


	7. Chapter 7

            “You’re at _who’s_ house?” I seethed, almost crushing the cell phone in my grip.

            “ _You going deaf on me, bro?_ ” Mike chuckled. “ _I said, Donnie. You know, that kid from the gym? He goes to Cedarwood too, and he offered to help me with my Stats homework, so Leo picked us up, and…_ ”

            “Who else is there?”

            “ _Uh…Just me, Don, and Leo. Oh, and their butlers, or whatever._ ”

            “Butlers?” Henchmen, no doubt, unless they were spoiled enough to have both. “Listen, Mike, I don’t want you hanging around there. Those guys are bad news.”

            “ _You really want me hitting the skate park with Byron instead? Come on, Raph, I’m not doing anything sus here; the guy’s literally helping me with my homework, then I guess Leo’s gonna teach me some more tai chi, or…_ ”

            “What’s the address?”

            “ _80 th and East End. But dude, don’t come down charging down here like some kinda raging…_”

            I ended the call and stuffed the phone back into my jeans. Not expecting the kid to be up for any trouble after his first day back at school, I’d skipped my usual afternoon check-in, anticipating I’d find him on the couch when I got back to the apartment. Instead, I was greeted by an empty room, aside from Klunk pattering in with a mew, looking for the attention Mike usually gave him. That was my mistake; right when I think he’s predictable, he goes and pulls some dumb shit that I could hardly even fathom. I left the apartment just as swiftly as I’d come in, dashing down the stairs and out to my motorcycle.

            Zipping in between lanes on FDR Drive, the ride down into Yorkville took only ten minutes. When I made it to 80th Street, it only took a second to tell which building on the intersection they must have lived in: a formidable tower of sand-colored brick, fifteen floors high, with a massive archway at street level leading into a spacious pickup area. I pressed the button on the speaker beside the gates of black iron, and after a bit of aggressive back-and-forth with the guy working security, the gates swung open. The alcove had cobblestones in the pattern of a flower along its floor, and huge Greek pillars holding up the trellised ceiling. A marble fountain bubbled in an alcove at the rear. Sure, knowing this part of town, I’d expected some elegance, but this shit was over the top.

            Ditching my bike inside and bursting through the heavy doors of glass and oak, I found myself looking at a directory of the floors engraved in brass. At the very top, a plaque read, “Penthouse A – Oroku/Hamato”. Of course they owned the biggest apartment, I thought to myself, in what had to be the priciest building in town. I called the elevator down, and tapped my foot impatiently through the slow journey upward, only further enraged by the milquetoast jazz music piped in through the ceiling. With a soft ding, the doors slid open, and I stood in an all-white atrium, aside from the sturdy lacquered door on the opposite end. I trudged toward it to give three forceful knocks, waiting a moment until two dead-ringers for the guards I’d seen at the meeting with the Foot opened it.

            “My brother’s in there.” I grunted. The two turned to look at each other.

            “One moment.” One uttered, before shutting the door on me. Growing angrier by the second, I was about to knock again, but it swung open before I got the chance. The two guards stood on either side of the door, watching me closely as I passed inside.

            If the exterior of the apartment was ritzy, the interior was straight-up imperial. Walnut floors polished so finely, I could practically see my reflection in them. Lofted ceilings with recessed lighting. Traditional Japanese woodblock paintings along the walls, no doubt priceless antiques, depicting scenes of storms and samurai. At the end of the massive entry hallway, a wall of windows and glass doors revealed the huge terrace outside, where I could make out the silhouettes of Mike, Don, and Leo against the backdrop of the setting sun. As I approached, Don seemed to be off by himself, masterfully swinging a long wood pole around like an oversized parade baton, while Mike sat on the brick floor with a pair of plastic nunchuks in hand, watching Leo whip a wooden set around like something lifted from a Bruce Lee flick.

            “That shit looks impossible, bro.” Mike groaned when I opened the door. “Why can’t I just use a stick like the Donster?”

            “Donnie started out using nunchaku too.” Leo explained, tucking the weapon beneath his arm in a flash. “They’re the perfect weapon for a beginner to learn on; you have to develop proper grip and posture before moving up to something like a bo.”

            Crossing my arms, I cleared my throat, and both of their heads shot around to look at me.

            “Hey Raph!” Leo smiled sheepishly. “I was just…”

            “Dude, I _told_ you not to come down here!” Mike interrupted, protesting. “Does it look like I’m getting into any trouble?”

            “No, it looks like you’re playing kung fu with a couple lowlifes.” I spat. “Come on, kid, we’re getting outta here.”

            “Lowlifes? Dude, do you _see_ this place? The guys are, like, kajillionaires!”

            “I said, _we’re getting outta here_. Don’t make me repeat myself.” I cracked my knuckles.

            “Raph, maybe we could discuss this inside?” Leo hastily intervened. I eyed him skeptically, but followed him in nonetheless, closing the door behind us.

            “What, you’re gonna convince me to let my brother hang out with a couple fucking yakuza?” I grumbled.

            “Look, I’m sorry for bringing Mike here without your permission, and I understand why you feel that way about me.” He sat down on the white leather couch with a glum expression, gently patting the cushion beside him to bid me to do the same. “But Don is completely innocent. I see no reason why they can’t be friends.”

            “He can make new friends.” I lowered myself onto the couch, careful not to brush against him. “’Cause Mike ain’t coming back here.”

            “It’s not that easy.” He chuckled, looking out onto the terrace as Don picked up the nunchuks he’d left out there and tried to show Mike a basic routine. “This is his first time having a friend over since…well, ever. And I give you my word: this is practically the safest place in the city. No harm will come to him here.”

            “Your ‘word’ means jack shit.” I spat. “I know what you are.”

            “We aren’t bad people, Raph.” He sighed. “When my father started growing Ashi-kai into what it is today, he used his wealth to help people. That’s how he met my mother, building a school for war orphans in Mozambique. I still donate much of my own pay to them.”

            “And I bet it helps you sleep real good at night. But take away the charity, the mansion, the car, the suits, and all that shit, and you’re nothing but a Purple Dragon to me.”

            “What do I have to do to prove that’s not true?” He begged, pain clearly visible in his eyes. I moved to stand back up, but his hand locked onto my wrist and pinned it to the couch. With a gentle tug, he sent me spinning back toward him, and before I had time to react, my lips crashed into his. The kiss was delicate, a little clumsy, speaking volumes about his experience, but the contact of his velvety skin on mine was electric nonetheless. After only a brief second, I pulled away slowly. His eyelids still shut, and soft lips still slightly agape, I wrenched my hand from his grip and stomped back out to the terrace, grabbing Mike by his arm and dragging him toward the exit. As we left the room, I watched Leo from the corner of my eye; he hadn’t moved from his spot on the sofa, but his expression of rapture had dropped into one of wordless disappointment.

 

* * *

 

            _I had organized everything perfectly. The hockey team at Franklin Pierce High had just made the playoffs for the first time in a decade, and obviously, a celebration was in order. Having hung around with Casey more than ever once I cut off the Jefferson Park boys, I was relatively close to the other guys on the team, so when I heard the good news, I immediately offered up my place in Carnegie Hill for a party. With Van Leer having fallen off the face of the earth after our encounter in Chinatown, all it took was convincing Mike to sleep over a friend’s place, and I had the house completely free. Even though I didn’t roll with my old set anymore, my name still carried a bit of weight in the liquor stores and bodegas around the southern edge of East Harlem, and finding a pot dealer around that part of town was easier than finding a clean subway station, so by the time Friday rolled around, I had more than enough bottles and bud to knock twenty-five guys on their asses._

_Throwing a bona fide rager was only my secondary goal for the night, the primary one being to get Jackson alone. There were a good-sized handful of openly gay and bi guys at Pierce High, but almost all were too…fruity? The type to wear pinks and pastels, talk with lisps, and worship Lady Gaga like she was a goddess. I held no bad blood with them, but they didn’t interest me. Jackson, on the other hand, was the starting goalie for the varsity squad, and his orientation was something of an open secret among the rest of the team. His family had moved from upstate our sophomore year, and retaining some of that small-town charm, like wearing flannels and steel-toed boots, or chewing dip instead of smoking cigarettes, made him stand out from all the preconceived notions I had about what a gay guy looked like. He had a kind of confident swagger about him, like everything in life was a challenge or potential conquest, and I found myself admiring that. I’d never spoken with him at length, but he certainly caught my attention, so my plan for the night was to see if I could get something to happen between us._

_Of course, that didn’t mean I wanted him drunk off his ass; I was getting desperate, sure, but not that desperate. Truthfully, I was more afraid of blacking out myself; gauging the right amount of alcohol to calm my nerves down without overshooting and ending up in the hospital was a dangerous game. The party itself was pretty straightforward, and went off without a hitch. We got hammered, blasted some music, smoked some blunts, watched the Ranger game, ordered some pizzas, and generally just chilled out. Casey, as always, made an absolute ass of himself, puking up half a pizza and probably a whole bottle of vodka into the kitchen sink, but otherwise, everyone seemed to have a good time._

_As the night drew towards its end, much of the team had headed home, a few guys were camped out in the living room, playing Super Smash Bros on Mike’s Wii, and at long last, Jackson and I were alone in the backyard, packing a lip and having a smoke, respectively. Even though we weren’t talking about anything in particular, the conversation seemed to flow naturally, and I kept finding my gaze drifting toward him, soaking in his messy spikes of straw-blond hair, his glacial blue eyes, and the porcelain skin of his chest and shoulders peeking out from the collar of his oversized hockey jersey. Whether it was him or the alcohol, I was starting to find it difficult to concentrate and play it cool._

_“Four playoff appearances in the last ten years, and of course, this year we’re nine-fourteen-and-three.” He spat a bolt of tobacco-stained saliva, shaking his head. “I tell you, bro, there’s nothing harder than being a Buffalo fan. Especially here in the city, where even the Islander fans are hooting and hollering nonstop.”_

_“What’s harder: being the only Sabres fan in the city, or being the only gay kid on the team?” I asked, half-jokingly. At that, he let out a hearty laugh._

_“What kind of question is that?” He threw me a quizzical glance. “Definitely Sabres fan. I mean, sure, the guys were weirded out at first, but now it’s no different than Basque doing yoga in the off-season, or Casey going by his middle name. It’s just a quirk, eh?”_

_“I get that. But, like, in the locker room…Don’t you, I don’t know…”_

_“What, check the guys out?” He leaned in closer. “You don’t ogle every chick that walks by, do you?_

_“You’re asking the wrong guy.” I muttered, looking away and sucking in a long drag._

_“What’s that supposed to mean?” He spat the remainder of his dip out and swished a swig of rum and coke around in his mouth._

_“Look…Don’t go telling nobody about this, okay? But I guess I’m kind of…” I paused, trying to figure out how to best word what I was about to confess. Before I could continue, his lips were on mine. I could taste the vapors of liquor and the tingle of nicotine as he snaked a hand around my waist, pulling me in closer. The feeling was something so distinct from the girls I’d kissed in the past; he moved against me with ferocious energy, seeking to overwhelm my own. His body was so warm, so eager, like an embodiment of a wildfire._

_This was what I wanted, right? So why did I feel so damn uneasy? A whole party planned, hundreds of dollars spent, just to be completely unprepared for when my fantasy became a reality. Burying my desires was something unsustainable, I knew that much, but it had become like second nature to me. As soon as the kiss began, my first instinct was to tense up like a pole had just been rammed up my spine. My eyes were wide open, staring straight into his eyelids with panicked shock. When he pulled away gently to breathe, I planted my hands on his chest and shoved him away roughly, sending him stumbling backward until he landed with his ass in the dirt._

_“Shit…I’m sorry, Raph.” He wobbled slightly as he stood up, brushing the dust from his jeans. “I totally misread that.”_

_“Yeah.” I turned away from him, planting my hand on the knob of the back door, where thankfully, no one was around to see us through the panes. “You did.”_

* * *

 

            “Why do you gotta spaz out like that, bro? Should I just have _zero_ friends? Is that what you want?” Mike persisted. He had been bitching at me since the moment I pulled him from Leo’s terrace, all the way down the elevator, and if I’d been able to hear it, I’d wager he continued through the entire ride home. With the kind of skill mastered over a lifetime of putting up with him, I tuned it all out, but as we walked up the steps to our place, he started to wear down my patience.

            “You know I don’t.” I sighed, putting my key in the lock and swinging the front door open. “You just got a habit of hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

            “What about Don screams ‘wrong crowd’ to you? The dude basically did all my homework for me, then showed me some badass bo staff moves. What are you so worried about?”

            “His brother.” I snarled, tossing my jacket and helmet into the closet as I marched in.

            “And what’s your problem with Leo? One week, you’re asking the guy out to dinner, the next, you’re calling him a lowlife.”

            “He _is_ a lowlife.”

            “How? He’s a loaded businessman and fucking tai chi teacher, dude!”

            “And a yakuza.” I reached into the fridge to grab a beer before turning back and flopping onto the couch, flicking the TV on.

            “The fuck?” Mike stood in front of me to block my view. “You’ve been watching too many movies, dude. Just ‘cause the guy’s got stacks, you think…”

            “I _know._ ” I pushed him aside, and defeatedly, he took a seat next to me. “That ‘business’ is an outfit that took over Japan. And their uncle is the head of the whole damn operation. They’re a bunch of drug-pushing, weapon-smuggling, _murderers_ , Mike! You really wanna get caught up with that bullshit, hanging out with _murderers_?”

            “Do you hear yourself, bro?” He scoffed, incredulously. “Where are you pulling this shit from?”

            “I…” Fuck. “Just trust me, okay. I know.”

            “Woah, surprise of the century!” Mike bolted up from his seat, throwing his hands in the air. “Hey, Raph, should we be worried Doctor V hasn’t come home in a whole year? Hey, Raph, isn’t Saint Tom’s too expensive of a school to send me to? Hey, Raph, how do you know Leo’s a fucking yakuza boss? ‘Oh, Mikey, you dumb little shit, just trust me, okay?’” He put on an exaggerated low growl to mock me. “It’s the same bullshit I’ve been hearing for years, dude, and I’m getting sick of it! I’m eighteen now; you can’t just keep pulling the wool over my eyes forever and expecting me to put up with it.”

            “Mike, I…” I stammered. Sure, I’d seen him angry countless times before, but never quite like this.

            “No, you know what? You wanna be the guy with all these secrets? Guess what? I’ve got secrets too.” He stomped off, disappearing around the corner, and as I heard a door unlatch, I assumed he’d gone into his room to end the conversation dramatically. In a flash, though, he stormed back into the room, and seeing what he held in his hand, my eyes damn near burst out of their sockets.

            “Secret number one: I know about this.” He brandished the Glock I kept in my nightstand, holding it up to eye level and aiming across the room as if he was about to fire, before twirling it around his finger and pointing it back toward the ground.

            “You know what kind of neighborhood we live in…” I tried to rationalize.

            “Uh-huh, that’s why you’ve had it since you were fifteen. Used to keep it under your bed, right next to secret number two: that gym bag full of cash you had, way before you ever had a job.”

            “That’s…”

            “Now, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but most people don’t stash all their money in between their guns and bulletproof vests. You know who does? Doomsday preppers, and gangbangers. And I might be wrong, but those kids you used to hang around with, Jason and Pete and them, they don’t seem like preppers to me. Which brings me to secret number three…” His disgusted gaze carried a blazing intensity that made my skin crawl. “You were one of the Jefferson Park boys.”

            At this point, I knew trying to get a word in edgewise was useless. Rather than attempt to interrupt, I lowered my head with a sigh and let him say his piece.

            “You really thought you could hide it, huh? Didn’t think any of the kids in school would say shit like, ‘Yo Mike, your brother came into my pops’ shop and shook him down for money’, and ‘Yo Mike, your brother’s been selling my sister smack for months’, and so on? You figured you were slick enough to sneak out almost every night, and come back in the morning like you were just a perfectly normal big brother. How stupid do you think I am?”

            “I hid it so you’d stay out of it.” I murmured, still not looking up at him. “And when Van Leer disappeared, I quit it all so I could keep an eye on you. Hate me if you want, but at least I did something right.”

            “I don’t hate you, bro! I’m just blown away that you can act like Leo’s some piece of shit just because he’s wrapped up in the same stuff you were!”

            “His set pushes to the Purple Dragons, Mike. You know they sold Mom the shit that _killed her_?” I expected him to be taken aback, at least a little, but he stood there unwavering.

            “So what?” He tossed the gun to me haphazardly, and I lunged forward to grab it. “If they didn’t, someone else would have. Shit, if you were pushing back then, you would have sold it to her yourself.”

            My free hand clenched into a fist, and as I struggled to come up with some words that could hurt him the way his had just done to me, he strode back around the corner and out of view. His door slammed, and I was left alone, staring at the cold black hunk of metal in my grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super awesome fun facts:
> 
> Leo's apartment is a real place: 20 East End Ave, Penthouse A. I use Zillow when I'm looking to describe a place, so I can get a feel for design and decoration, and this place is fuckin swaaaaanky! Literally tens of thousands of dollars a month, I would rather by a car every 30 days than have to pay rent on that lmao
> 
> I wrote myself into an ethnic/cultural hole with Leo's name! I knew I wanted his mother to be East African, and I knew I wanted her and his father to meet on some kind of humanitarian thing, but the only place that had a war around that time was Mozambique. A portion of the population does speak Swahili there, but guess what? The national language is Portuguese, meaning he could have just been named 'Leonardo' straight up and it wouldn't even be weird! Gaaahhh whatever, this way Donnie isn't the only one without his proper Turtle name!
> 
> Also the names Jackson and Basque have been shamelessly lifted from that 'Teenage Mecha Ninja Turtles' animated short that came out last summer. Running out of humans from the 2012 series to incorporate here!
> 
> On that note, I figured it's worth mentioning that I envision Leatherhead/Van Leer as the 2003 incarnation, namely because he's a genius scientist. Then again, this is a human AU, so you can imagine whatever the fuck you want if the story makes sense haha
> 
> The dialogue between Mike and Raph at the end was written in one straight shot; I've perused it for like an hour trying to improve it, because I'm not sure if it flows believably, but I can't quite think of a way to improve it.
> 
> The name 'Ashi-kai' reflects how most yakuza outfits in Japan; it seems to me they all end in '-kai' or '-gumi', so I figure that if the Foot Clan were being spoken about in Japanese, they'd be referred to as Ashi-kai. Can't really be sure though.
> 
> This chapter may have been painstaking and a bit boring, but there's some boom-bop-pow coming up very soon!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy what's to come!


	8. Chapter 8

            _After the first couple years living in our own place, things seemed to be going smoothly. Casey’s pops had moved me up from sweeping the garage to actually fixing cars, and I wasn’t starving toward the end of each month just to scrape rent together anymore. Mike had been getting into some trouble at Pierce High, but thankfully, it wasn’t anything like what I’d been doing during my years there. Texting in class, mouthing off to teachers, failing a class or two; so long as he wasn’t stashing a gun in his locker or flipping bags outside during lunch, I couldn’t complain. All things considered, life was good._

_Then, Mike got caught tagging the dumpsters after school. Thanks to some bullshit legislation about graffiti being tied to gang activity, their ‘zero-tolerance policy’ meant he was immediately expelled. I gave him the chewing out of a lifetime, not because I was surprised or disappointed in what he’d done, but because I knew it would throw my finances into a whirlwind. Between reform school and parochial school, the price difference was marginal, and I didn’t want to traumatize the kid any further than what he’d already endured, but even the cheapest option would put my bank account in the negatives. So, naturally, I looked for a night job._

_That’s easier said than done. My resume was sparse – essentially one line, that being the garage gig. The places that would hire anyone sober and conscious on the spot didn’t pay nearly enough compared to what I needed. My hunt took me all through the southern reaches of East Harlem and the surrounding neighborhoods, though I tried my best to stay away from the blocks around Jefferson Park, in hopes of avoiding a reunion with the boys._

_Becoming a bouncer at a bar seemed like something right up my alley, so I found myself in front of Earl’s Beer and Cheese on my lunch break one afternoon. The place was a hipster joint, part of the gentrification creeping north of what had once been the upper edge of Yorkville. During the day, yuppies seemed to go there for wildly overpriced snacks and tiny sandwiches, and wearing my oil-stained coveralls as I stepped in made me feel completely out of place, until I saw the lady behind the bar. Her hair was kept in a short buzz, dyed a dark shade of violet, but otherwise, I recognized every detail about her in a heartbeat: the eyes of glittering amber, the glinting silver ring in her septum, and the artistic lilac tattoo of a salamander peeking up from the collar of her shirt. Emboldened, I grabbed a seat at the bar beside her._

_“What can I getcha, hon?” She set down the glass she was polishing, and turned to look at me, when her expression turned from casual disinterest to one of unexpected shock. “Red?”_

_“Mona.” I smiled. “The hell are you doing in a place like this?”_

_“Same thing you’re doing wearing that grease-monkey costume.” She chuckled. “Earning a paycheck. Can’t be running the streets when I got a kid at home.”_

_“Don’t I know it.” I laughed. She never struck me as the motherly type, but time changes everything, I guess. “You guys ain’t hiring bouncers or anything, are you?”_

_“Just started a new guy a couple weeks ago. Sorry.” She gave me a look of genuine shame. “It’s funny, you know. Jase always assumed Leatherhead and you branched out into your own game, and cut the rest of us out. Figured you’d be a kingpin by now.”_

_“If only.” I sighed. “Nah, I ain’t seen the guy in a while.”_

_“Yeah, no shit. He’s been locked up for, like, a year now.”_

_“Wait, what?” I’d tried my best to block out any thoughts of Van Leer ever since our fateful night in Chinatown; thinking about him was too complicated and required too much energy. Jail was always a possibility, of course, but to hear that it actually happened filled my heart with concern._

_“Word on the street is, dude fell off the deep end and got shipped off to Man Psych. Don’t know what they bagged him on, but no one’s heard shit from him since.”_

_“Always was a little crazy.” I mused, clapping my hands on the bar and lifting myself from the seat. “Listen, it’s good seeing you again.”_

_“What, you ain’t gonna buy nothing?” She snickered._

_“Like I could afford anything here.” I turned back to shoot her a smirk._

* * *

For the next few days after our fight, Mike and I didn’t say much to one another. If he’d been going back to Leo’s place, I didn’t know about it, and wasn’t prepared to ask. The few moments we encountered each other in the apartment were tense and silent more often than not. Truthfully, I wanted to apologize to him, but with nearly a decade’s worth of lies and deceptions to cover, I didn’t even know where to begin. His outburst had really shaken me; I owed him the truth, that much was clear, but would he look at me the same when he knew everything I’d done?

            Half of my mind was still devoted to processing my encounter with Leo. The whole thing seemed so surreal; he kissed me, and I liked it, but it didn’t shake the resentment I held for him. Then again, that resentment had yet to overpower my desire, no matter how much I told myself that his lifestyle made him off-limits. Figuring that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him only complicated things further, and if he’d starred in my dreams before our kiss, he absolutely took over my psyche after the fact. What had his intention been? Why was he interested in me at all? Where was I supposed to go from here?

            I drifted through the week with my head in the clouds, lacking focus to the point where I would have ended up pancaked under an Escalade if Casey hadn’t hollered for me as the lift started to lower. Such a constant feeling of distraction, I thought to myself, left me feeling sympathetic to Mike’s struggles in school. When Thursday came around, I foolishly toyed around with the idea of going to the Y after my shift, but the decision not to was made for me when I overheard the TV in the customer area. Around closing time, the evening news was always on, and typically I did my best to ignore the grating shrill of Carlos Chiang O’Brien Gambe’s voice, but tonight, the footage onscreen caught my eye.

            “ _…explosions and a massive blaze in the Brighton Beach area._ ” He announced as the camera showed a familiar brick building with raging fire and thick smoke pouring out from its windows. A dozen fire trucks were parked out front, their lights tinting everything in view a sinister shade of crimson. “ _The area is primarily residential, directly across the street from the Eileen E. Zaglin School, though the fire department has confirmed that the building is an abandoned industrial complex. More updates will come as we receive them._ ”

            The city’s largest drug lab, right in view of an elementary school. Only the recklessness of Leatherhead and the indifference of Steranko could have combined to set up such an operation, and yet somehow, it survived unscathed until now. I’d only been there once or twice, but the jarring juxtaposition of seeing the playground through the slats of the vented windows stuck with me over the years. I found myself thumbing through the messages on my phone, looking at the number Van Leer had texted me from for our rendezvous. He’d told me his role in the business was strictly hands-off, yes, but an uneasy feeling wormed its way into my stomach. Dialing his number, the line beeped until I was greeted with a static-laden “ _This is Doctor Kobus Van Leer. I cannot take your call now, but leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you when I’m able._ ”

            The more I tried to convince myself he was safe at home, the less I believed it. In a matter of minutes, my uniform was off and stuffed in my backpack, my riding gear was on, and my motorcycle was cruising downtown as fast as I could manage. Brighton Beach was about as out of the way as a neighborhood can be, but cutting between lanes and aggressively ignoring the speed limit, it only took a half-hour to get down to Battery Park, in the tunnel, and onto the highways along the edge of Brooklyn. The inferno was visible even from the Belt Parkway, dense pillars of grey smoke wafting skyward, and it only appeared larger and even more frightening as I pulled into the near-vacant parking lot across the street. Hordes of panicked residents and onlookers stood on the sidewalk as the firemen doused the building with water from the outside, hoping to contain the fire from spreading to adjacent homes and businesses.

            Not counting my bike, three cars sat in the lot: two close by to the school itself, most likely janitors, and a blacked-out Mercedes along the edge, where trees obscured its view from the scene of destruction only yards away. I pulled alongside the wagon and cut my engine, flipping the visor up from my helmet to get a better look inside the vehicle. Slumped forward in the driver’s seat, staring down into his lap, wearing a tattered and singed lab coat, sat Van Leer. The door was left unlocked, and as I opened it, he was startled from whatever trance had possessed him. A shimmer of black metal shone in his hand, the Ruger I’d seen countless times before.

            “Easy, big guy.” I soothed, pressing the barrel of the gun downward with my palm.

            “Adrenaline, Raphie. Still in a bit of shock.” He panted, tossing the weapon onto the passenger seat beside him. “What are you doing here?”

            “Could ask you the same thing.” On closer inspection, patches of flesh along his neck and forearm were visibly scorched, glistening with blood and pus. One of his eye sockets was dark and swollen as well. “There’s ambulances, like, fifty feet away, Kop. You wanna get patched up or something?”

            “Paramedics would love to know what I was doing inside. No one’s gotten in yet, so as far as they know, the place has been empty for years.”

            “Better hope all the smack burns up before they can find it.” I chuckled, leaning back onto my bike.

            “Everything was cleaned out when I showed up.” Beneath the panic in his eyes, rage began to shine through. “That _verdoem kaffir_ Baxter Stockman set me up.”

            “I always said the guy seemed like a snake.” My fists tensed.

            “A snake, yes, but one charmed by money.” His teeth grated. “Now there’s someone playing a bigger flute. He called me up after work, said there was something off about the new reagents. Told me Steranko asked that I check it out, and like an _esel_ , I didn’t even bother to confirm with him. So, I showed up, and everything’s gone: the equipment, the reagents, the product, my men, everything. All that’s inside was Stockman, and his new _handlangers_. They tossed me out of my chair, roughed me up, and the dumb _verraaier_ told me who’s signing his new paychecks right before they knocked me out. When I came to, the place was burning, and I barely dragged myself out here before the firemen arrived.”

            “Why didn’t he just shoot you?”

            “You’re not thinking like a megalomaniac, _laaitie_. The _bliksem_ wanted me to suffer; said it was payback for all the years I kept him under my thumb. Though I seriously doubt that bitch Karai will treat him any better.”

            “Karai?” My jaw nearly grazed the asphalt. “You mean…”

            “She never intended to do business with us in the first place. This kind of treachery is right up the yakuza’s alley. I should have seen it coming…”

           

* * *

 

            _Before I even fully comprehended that it was out of worry, I found myself on the footbridge to Wards Island, wondering why I was staring at the gargantuan tan façade of the Manhattan Psychiatric Center as it drew closer and closer. It was a structure I could see from my apartment balcony on a clear day, but I had never contemplated what it would be like to visit it. The irony of going to the loony bin to see the genius I had once called my foster father wasn’t lost on me, but he truly was the only man whose advice I’d ever considered worth taking. A straightjacket and a padded room wouldn’t change that._

_Enduring a passive-aggressive snarl from the receptionist that visiting hours were close to over when I walked in, I confirmed that there was a Kobus Van Leer inside, and she bid me to wait until a nurse came to lead me down a labyrinth of hallways. The flickering fluorescent lights and overwhelming stench of ammonia reminded me of his academic lab at Columbia, though the vibe of my surroundings was more one of a 1980’s horror flick than a cutting-edge pulse point of science. Finally, I was waved into a plain, windowless room, empty but for a card table, some folding chairs, two surly orderlies, and a slack-jawed man in white robes sitting in a wheelchair, his eyes as glassy as those of the crocodile tattooed on his arm._

_“Kop?” I hesitantly sat across the table from him._

_“Raphie.” His voice was low and slow, barren of emotion._

_“You, uh…” I looked away, disconcerted, but not wanting to appear too uncomfortable. “How you doing?”_

_“Twelve milligrams of risperidone, two hundred milligrams of lamotrigine, and twenty milligrams of diazepam.” He stated, as if commenting on the weather. “By now, there’s not a single molecule of dopamine left in my body. It’s somewhat like a halfway point between being castrated and lobotomized.”_

_“Shit…Um, sorry.” I muttered. “They treating you okay?”_

_“The food was better in the Army. I spend two hours a day with a psychiatrist who’s convinced everything is my mother’s fault, and two hours a day in a therapy group with people even less coherent than myself. The rest of the time, I get to sit in a quiet corner to feel the last of my brain cells fester and drip out of my ears.” With a faint tremor in his movement, he lethargically reached into the pocket of his pants, producing a notepad and pen. “They’ve decided I lack the motivation to harm myself or anyone else, so I’m allowed to have these now.”_

_“Fuck.” This was getting more nightmarish by the second. “What did you do to get locked up like this? Russians finally got knocked over?”_

_“The criminally insane are held across the street.” He let out a painstakingly long sigh. “I checked myself in to detox. Amphetamine-induced psychosis, even I knew it. Then, they decided it wasn’t just the amphetamines. Bipolar type I, obsessive-compulsive disorder, paranoid personality disorder, and psychopathy were what I made out before the psychiatrist realized I could read her notes. The list is probably ten times longer now. More than enough reasons to keep me here until my bank account runs dry.”_

_“Huh.” Coming here for advice didn’t seem like such a bright idea anymore._

_“There is one thing I agree with them on.” He lifted a finger from the table. “Now that drugs are out of the equation, that is. I was wrong to put you at risk. In a lifetime of regrets, that’s my greatest one.”_

_“Kop, that’s…” I scoffed, bringing myself to look him in the eye again. “I kinda did it to myself.”_

_“I took you and Mikey in to give you a better life. And so I could have something to keep me grounded, to give myself a purpose.” Though his facial expression remained stagnant, a lone tear trickled from the corner of his eye. “I got greedy, hedonistic. Careless. Now, I assume, we all rot because of it.”_

_“That’s not true.” I objected. “I straightened out, got a day job. Mike, well,…The kid got kicked outta school, but we’re gonna make something work. I ain’t giving up on him, just like you never did.”_

_“You’re a good laaitie.” The corners of his mouth turned up, almost imperceptibly. “What did you come here for?”_

_“I got no idea how to pay for Mike’s new school.” I admitted. “We’re scraping by, and I thought…I dunno, you might know how to make it happen.”_

_At that, he paused for a long moment, one that felt like a lifetime. I could sense the gears in his head were turning, albeit slowly._

_“Before I came here, Steranko was organizing something with his people in Russia. An opportunity very open to freelancers, even those looking for a one-time deal.” He shifted his focus to the notepad on the table, clutching his pen and steadily writing something down. “Operation Dvornik, he called it. It won’t involve any drug trade or bloodshed of innocents, if he’s to be believed.”_

_“Is he?”_

_“Ivan does what is profitable, and that’s not always mutually exclusive with what is right. Besides, he did used to speak of you favorably.” He tore the page out of his notepad, creased it carefully, and slid it across the table to me. “I think you will receive honest pay for honest work.”_

* * *

 

            Though it had been Karai’s name on Van Leer’s lips, from the moment he said it, all I heard was Leo. The man kissed me, then arranged to kill one of the few people I kept near to my heart, all within a matter of days. It was an insult, an outrage, and it set my blood boiling from the moment I understood what had happened. I had been used, toyed with like it was all some kind of sick game, and it made my desire wane in the face of unbridled fury. After Van Leer assured me he could get home safely, I rocketed my way back into Manhattan and up to my apartment. Mike, thankfully, was there, but we didn’t speak as I marched straight into my room and dug deep into my closet, freeing the plywood panel mounted on the back wall from its place and revealing the hidden alcove behind it. A lone gym bag, covered in dust from years of disuse, sat in the secret compartment, and I unceremoniously heaved it out and onto my shoulder, grabbed the pistol from my nightstand, then disappeared back into the night. Within an hour of leaving Brighton Beach, I was sitting atop a roof in Yorkville, separated by an alleyway from the lavish penthouse. My torso was squeezed into the old, clunky vest of plated body armor beneath my all-black riding gear, and in place of my helmet, I wore a black beanie, the only non-black exposed on me being my eyes and the red bandana across my mouth. It was an outfit I’d been lucky enough to avoid wearing in a long time, but I supposed, that meant I was overdue.

            Getting onto this building was the easy part; the alley was dark and totally empty, and its fire escape was within jumping distance from the ground, even with my hefty bag in tow. The difficult part would be getting across the alleyway and another ten stories up, especially seeing as Leo’s complex had an exterior of smooth, unadorned brick and glass. Nothing is impossible with the right preparation, though. Unzipping one of the outer pouches on my bag, I pulled out a length of thick braided rope, a menacing four-pronged hook on its end. I whipped the hook around overhead and flung it skyward, listening for a clang as it latched onto the railing of the terrace, and gave it a firm tug to ensure it was secure. Digging through the main compartment of the bag, I felt around until I found what I needed ready before making my ascent: A sixty-four-round cylindrical magazine, weighty flashlight-like sound suppressor, and a PP-19 Bizon, all Russian military surplus. I lined up the magazine beneath the barrel and locked it in place, then screwed the small end of the suppressor into the muzzle, and slung the submachine gun across my back on its strap, before grabbing tightly onto the rope and sucking in a deep breath.

            Thank god for the YMCA, otherwise, my arms would have had no chance of holding the weight of my body and gear as I swung across the alley like Tarzan. My boots thudded against the brick wall, and like a mountaineer climbing up a steep rock face, I pulled myself up at a steady pace, throwing one arm in front of the other and hanging on for dear life. It was a long, arduous process to get up ten stories, and as I neared the top, there were times I thought my muscles would give out entirely and send me falling to my death. Finally, I arrived at the terrace, and latched onto the railing with both arms as if I was pulling myself out of the pool, only allowing my eyes to peek over. The terrace was empty, and the only lights shining onto the brick floor came from the glass doors and windows to the living room. Squinting, I could faintly make out the two suited henchmen posted up at the end of the entry hallway, in the same position they were in when I’d paid a visit days ago.

            In one fluid motion, I flung myself over the railing and unfastened my grappling hook from where it had embedded itself in the supports. The men inside still hadn’t moved, so I darted to the far edge of the terrace, through an archway to a walled-off area where I couldn’t be seen from the interior. I set the rope and gym bag down behind me, lowered myself onto one knee, and swung my gun around to grip it tightly and aim down the rail. Inching forward at a snail’s pace, I got into a position where the door inside was just barely in view, and holding my breath, I fired a lone shot. The weapon had a bit of kick to it, but hardly more than a handgun, and true to its aim, the .380 round struck one panel of the door and shattered it into a thousand tiny shards with a deafening clatter.

            In a flash, the two grunts were furiously uttering to each other in Japanese inside the living room, drawing their handguns and swiveling their heads around, looking for the source of the destruction. One stepped through the glass onto the terrace first, but I held my position until both were cleanly in my sights. With masterful patience, I continued to wait until the two of them had their backs toward me, then pulled my trigger twice with a gloved finger. Two headshots sent their bodies crumpling to the brick, and I lowered my gun. My ears and eyes waited for any indication of further movement from inside, and noticing none, I stood up and strode toward the apartment. Destroyed door aside, everything looked exactly as it had the last time I saw it, and my eyes involuntarily found themselves drawn toward the white leather couch where Leo and I had sat.

            After a moment, I shook myself from staring, and reminded myself of what I’d come to do. From what I knew about upper-crusts, their bedrooms would be about as far from the entrance as possible, so checking the entry hallway would be futile. That meant advancing through the kitchen and down the hallway deeper into the apartment. I moved as silently and swiftly as I could, searching for any signs of life, and delicately poking open each door to observe the room’s contents before moving onto the next one. I passed a library, an armory of what appeared to be antique Japanese weapons, and a traditional dining area with reed mats on the floor as I made my way through the hall. Each room further solidified how opulent the place was, and knowing how they made their money to afford such a place only made my bile bubble up more and more. One door at the edge of a bend in the hallway was locked, and as cautiously as a jaguar about to strike, I pulled my trusty Glock from the holster at my hip and pressed it to the doorknob, maintaining my other hand’s grip on the Bizon. With the barrel of the submachine gun aiming into the door, I fired my sidearm and burst through as the lock became useless.

            Inside, the walls were completely plain, and the only furniture in view were a king-sized bed adorned with sheets of deep purple, and a stately wooden desk bearing only a stack of notebooks next to an equal-sized stack of textbooks. Taking a step forward, I could make out the titles along the spines of the textbooks; they were exactly the same as the ones Mike left scattered across the kitchen table the past couple nights. Clearly, this was Don’s room, but that begged the question, where was Don? My mind raced for a moment until coming to a sudden realization, and had I not had a weapon in each hand, I would have slapped myself on the forehead. It was Thursday, meaning both brothers were at the gym. I had cat-burgled my way into their apartment, killed their guards, and being a hotheaded idiot, completely ignored the possibility that my target wouldn’t be home.

            No matter, I thought to myself. Slaying Leo was personal, yeah, but there was a body that would surely carry much more value in the business sense: his cousin. In all likelihood, she would have been the one to order the takedown of Van Leer’s operation, so my rushing in and tearing the place up need not be completely in vain. That was the last thing my mind processed before I felt harsh jabs to the delicate flesh of my armpits, one after the other. The nerves in my arms were suddenly filled with static, and both of my guns went clattering to the ground. Before I could turn around, the same forceful hands delivered precise blows ascending up my neck, striking between the bones of my spine. My legs became as useless as my arms, and like a ragdoll, I collapsed onto the floor.

            Standing over me with a menacing look in her eyes was none other than Karai, the polished black leather of her heels only inches away from my head, and a wicked grin plastered across her lips as she clicked her tongue at me.

            “I was not expecting a houseguest.” She snickered, bending down to yank my bandana off my face. “Much less one here on business. Did you come to avenge your employer?”

            “You fucking bitch!” I spat, struggling to move but feeling absolutely limp. “The hell did you do to me?”

            “ _K_ y _ūsho_.” She picked my submachine gun off the floor, removing its strap and examining it with scientific curiosity. “Pressure points. By the time they wear off, perhaps I will have decided exactly what should become of you.”

            With that, she pulled the butt of the gun back, and slammed it into my temple, shutting off every light in my consciousness. Her subdued chuckles were the last thing I could remember hearing before the world faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took longer than the last few! Action can get difficult to write, and fleshing out the little details of this chapter became wildly time-consuming.
> 
> The flashbacks here don't mesh with the story proper as well as past chapters have, but I've done my best to keep everything moving in parallel. I do hope it flows somewhat naturally!
> 
> A disclaimer about the scene in the mental hospital: I'm thankful to have never taken any kind of psychiatric medication, but as a result, I've got very little frame of reference with which to understand how LH/Van Leer feels in that state. I also don't wish to denigrate anyone who does take those types of medication; they're medicine, and if they help you, more power to you! However, this story will roll with the premise that Van Leer is perhaps a victim of psychiatric abuse (all too common, unfortunately), and is both overmedicated and overdiagnosed. Do let me know if you have suggestions on how to improve this portrayal!
> 
> I'm beginning to feel like Dora the Explorer, introducing everyone to new foreign language vocab every damned chapter! Here's today's bit:
> 
> Afrikaans:
> 
> Verdoem kaffir = damned (insert objectionable term for a person of color here)
> 
> Esel = dunce
> 
> Verraaier = traitor
> 
> Japanese:
> 
> Kyūsho = pressure points
> 
> Russian:
> 
> Dvornik = janitor
> 
> Thank you kindly for your time and attention! It's an absolute blast getting to write this story, and I hope you're enjoying it a fraction as much as I am!


	9. Chapter 9

            “…with arms clearly originating in Russia, post-Cold War era. The true nature of our enemies is now apparent to me.”

            “I still don’t understand. He…He’s not some assassin, he’s a mechanic! With a family. A man of honor.”

            “Do you realize where I found him? He was in your brother’s room, weapons drawn! How honorable can he be if he would strike down a _haijin_?”

            “It doesn’t add up to me. What quarrel could he have with Donnie?”

            As I first came to, I thought I might have left the TV on and passed out in the living room again, woken by the dialogue from some kind of interrogation scene in a thriller. My head and back, though, protested that if I was on a couch, it was certainly the least comfortable one I’d ever had the displeasure of laying on. My eyes fluttered open, and suddenly, everything made sense. I was strung up like a cut of meat in a butcher’s cooler, hanging upside-down from a hook in the ceiling of a room riddled with glistening swords, spears, and other weapons along the walls. My arms were tied behind my back, and ankles bound together with cord. At eye level, I made out a pair of black heels and teal toe-shoes standing a few feet away, their occupants looking directly at me.

            “Raph.” Leo murmured, stooping down to look me in the eyes with a confused, concerned glare. “What are you doing here?”

            “Same thing as what you did to Leatherhead.” I spat. “Taking care of business.”

            “Leatherhead?” His eyebrow peaked, and he turned to face his cousin. “What is he talking about?”

            “Father requested that I eliminate the competition by whatever means I saw fit.”

            “You said you were bringing that Stockman guy on board to displace him.”

            “And as a reward, I allowed Stockman to dispose of his former employer in a way that would please him.”

            “You mean that fire in Brooklyn…That was him?”

            “He will be encouraged to keep his antics more discrete in the future.”

            “He killed three innocent people!” Leo gasped. “How could you allow this?”

            “As of now, he is too valuable to us to rebuke properly for his errors. And civilians aside, he did what was asked.”

            “Civilians aside? Since when have we done business like that?”

            “You know nothing of how we do business.” She stepped over to a case on the wall and pulled a katana down from a rack. “Would you care to learn?”

            “Who did you come here for?” He turned back to me, ignoring Karai.

            “You.” I muttered, ashamed. “Thought you sent out a hit on the guy.”

            “Surely, you would not spare the life of a man who came to kill you?” She held out the sword to Leo, who eyed it with unease. “Defend your honor, _itoko_.”

            “Slaying a helpless opponent isn’t defending anything.” He objected.

            “It is an order, not a request.” She barked. “Cousin or not, I am your _oyabun_ here.”

            Without a word, Leo gripped the hilt of the katana, staring into his reflection in the polished metal of the blade. His expression went somber and contemplative as he wound the sword back over his shoulder, preparing for a great chop that would flay my chest and neck open like he was gutting a fish. My eyes locked onto his, giving him an unwavering glare, daring him do what he seemed ready for. At the last moment, I watched his grip on the sword shift, and with a broad horizontal sweep, the cord binding my feet to the hook in the ceiling was sliced cleanly. I thudded to the hardwood floor with a grunt, landing on my head, with my limbs still bound together. He hunched down to take a closer look at my bindings, but in a flash, Karai had grabbed a sword of her own, aiming its point directly at my Adam’s apple.

            “You are weak.” She shot Leo a wicked smirk. “Just like your father.”

            “How so?” Leo snapped upright, pulling his blade away from the cord at my feet and brandishing the steel in an attack position.

            “Hamato Yoshi let his so-called honor get in the way of conducting business. _Bushidō_.” She snickered. “Always pretending to be a samurai, and never a yakuza.”

            With that, she pulled her sword back and prepared to drive it forward into my throat. Leo stepped forward swiftly and used his own to parry her blade upward with a resonant clang. The force of his swing made her take a step backward.

            “My father shaped Ashi-kai into what it is today.” He growled.

            “Your father may have shaped Ashi _Industries_ , but Ashi-kai would not exist if his direction was allowed to continue.” She poised her katana beside her waist before charging and thrusting toward Leo’s abdomen. His sword moved forward to cross its path, the grating sound of metal scraping metal echoing through the room as their blades locked perpendicularly.

            “You don’t mean…”

            “You would be wise to learn from his mistakes, _Ryō_.” She retreated a step to end their deadlock. “Or you might meet the same fate.”

            “Are you saying I’ll crash my car?” He cocked an eyebrow curiously.

            “If it makes you feel better, you can continue to believe that fairy tale.” She grinned smugly, making a broad swipe with her sword and forcing Leo to lunge backward. “My father could not stand idly by while a coward disassembled Ashi-kai, to leave its scraps for his _kokujin_ and _baka_ sons. We would have become the laughingstock of Japan.”

            With an animalistic roar, the likes of which I could never have expected to come from him, Leo charged toward Karai, his blade practically invisible with the speed of his furious attack. The two dueled masterfully, incorporating rapid kicks and jabs with their pommels in between katana strikes, though nearly every attack was either blocked or dodged successfully. I wriggled my way out of the center of the room, hoping not to serve as a speedbump or collect any collateral damage. Even fueled by his anger, Leo moved with fluidity and grace, his style appearing almost improvisational when contrasted to Karai’s rigid, jagged strikes. Still unable to free myself, I had no choice but to lie there against the wall and spectate the very first swordfight I’d ever seen outside of a TV screen.

            At one point, Karai feinted a thrust, and Leo took the bait by attempting to parry, leaving his flank open to receive a long, shallow slice. Emboldened by the drawing of his own blood, he redoubled his effort, swiping to draw her into a bind. As she pressed her weight into her blade, attempting to overpower his, he ducked down and launched his foot into her wrist. Her sword flipped through the air, sticking point-down between the floorboards behind Leo, and he darted back in a heartbeat to retrieve it. With panic clearly visible in her eyes, Karai turned on her heel to retrieve another katana from the weapon case behind her, but Leo was hot on her trail. Flipping the swords around in his grip, he jabbed the pommels harshly beneath her armpits, then in a column ascending from the back of her neck to the base of her skull, targeting the same pressure points I’d endured only hours earlier.

            She slumped to the floor gracelessly, her left hand splayed far up past her head. Dropping to one knee, Leo tore two strips of fabric off his tank top where she had cut through it, placing one beneath her hand and tying the other around the base of her little finger, as he lined up his sword with the top knuckle.

            “ _Masaka son'na koto wa shinaidarou!_ ” She seemed to protest, and I recognized the futile rage in her expression as she attempted to move her decommissioned limbs.

            “ _Watashi wa matteimasu. Anata no chichioya ni tsugeru._ ” He stated flatly, before letting the edge of his blade slice cleanly through the flesh beneath it. Karai didn’t flinch, being unable to feel the impromptu amputation, but rather watched on in horror as her blood began to spurt out onto the black cloth. As she shrieked a string of what I could only imagine to be curses, he turned his back on her, and slid his sword in between my wrists to slice their bindings.

            “Sorry you had to see that.” He offered as he did the same to the rope around my ankles. Seriously? I broke into the guy’s house, told him I came to kill him, and he’s the one apologizing to me?

            “I’ve seen worse.” I chuckled, accepting his outstretched hand and righting myself. As I strode over toward Karai, she continued her unintelligible tirade, spitting clumsily in the direction of my boots only to have her saliva drop a few inches short. “May I?” I gestured to her.

            “Be my guest.” He turned his back, wiping his swords clean before mounting them back in their case. I took it as invitation to silence her racket, and as my steel-encased toes made contact with her temple, they accomplished exactly that.

 

* * *

 

_The waterfront condo in Brighton Beach confirmed every stereotype I’d had about Russian mobsters. Ornate Persian rugs covering so much of the floor, I could barely make out the polished hardwood between them. Heavy velvet drapes, framed with gold fringe, around every window. An elaborate chandelier so large, I had to wonder how many times the occupants of the lavish dining room table beneath it hit their heads when standing up. Varnished cabinets containing what looked to be tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of crystal. And despite all the opulence, Steranko sat at the table wearing a black nylon tracksuit, a half-empty bottle of vodka and half-full ashtray beside him, smoke filling the room as it curled off his cigarette._

_“It has been long time, Raphael. You are doing well, da?” He smiled, the diamond in his eye socket twinkling as the smoke flowed from between his teeth. “Better than your otets, at least?”_

_“Ain’t locked up, if that’s what you mean.”_

_“It is great shame, what happen to Leatherhead.” His expression turned glum. “His umnik Stockman is terrible scientist, even if sober one.”_

_“I believe it.” I scoffed. “Anyways, I’m here for some work, I guess. Supposed to ask about Operation Dvornik.”_

_“Who tell you about this?” He slammed his hands down on the table, looking deathly serious._

_“Uh…Leatherhead did.”_

_“Da, konechno!” He laughed, leaning back into a comfortable posture. “Can’t be too sure, you know. Dvornik is something I keep very hush-hush. Many people want in on deal. One moment.”_

_He pushed his chair back and lumbered around the corner, disappearing into a room briefly, before returning with a manila folder in his hand and sliding it across the table to me._

_“My comrades in motherland hear about competition I face here. Much more profit to gain if our enemies are…tampered with.”_

_Opening the folder, a scattered assortment of photographs stared back at me. Each bore a face, some of which I recognized as either colleagues or rivals from life in the underworld. On the backs were names, addresses, or other information about whoever was depicted on the front. At the bottom of each blurb was a dollar sign and a number, ranging from a few thousand to nearly a million._

_“Tampered with, how?” I raised an eyebrow, setting a picture of a skinny Chinese guy with a scruffy goatee down atop the pile._

_“Kill, jail, or bring to me. Whatever is easiest.” He shot me a devilish grin. “You feel up to challenge? Becoming okhotnik za golovami might suit you.”_

_I sifted through the pile, flipping them over to find a dollar amount close to what Mike’s tuition would cost for his last two years of school. Anything too much higher, I wagered, would be needlessly difficult, but trying to add up too many of the small fry would be time-consuming and risky. Finding three, I slid them out of the folder over to Steranko._

_“Tell me about these guys.” He examined them knowingly for a moment, pointing first to a lean, dark-skinned guy with a shaggy afro, wearing a black leather vest._

_“Xever Montes, goes by ‘Mister X’. Works for Sao Paulo cartel, pushing to Latino gangs in Queens and the Bronx.” Next, he tapped the photo of a surly-looking white guy, with slicked-back hair and a pair of mirrored shades on. “Antonio Grimaldi, or ‘The Hammer’. Used to be Vizioso’s muscle before…you know. Has a couple of Five Families in his employ.”_

_“And him?” I gestured to the Asian dude I’d looked at before._

_“A tricky one. Called ‘Fong’, but who knows if it’s first name or last name, da? Leader of Purple Dragons.”_

_“I’ll take him.” I muttered reflexively._

_“Otlichno!” Steranko exclaimed, lifting his bottle jubilantly before taking a hearty swig. “Thorn in my side for years. Wait, I have something for you to take.” Again, he left the room, reappearing quickly with a gym bag and hefting it onto the table with a loud clatter. He zipped open the main pouch and brandished both a Kalashnikov and a shorter submachine gun, almost smashing the chandelier with the barrel of the rifle._

_“Shit!” My eyes grew to the size of pancakes. “That’s some serious heat!”_

_“Is present.” He slammed them down, opening the bag further to reveal countless magazines, scopes, silencers, and other tools of war inside. Then, in the side pouches, he unveiled even more: a grappling hook, smoke grenades, knives, and things I couldn’t even attempt to recognize. “Leatherhead always speak of you like son, so I think of you like nephew, nyet?”_

_“Didn’t realize you guys were close like that.” I mumbled, watching as he placed the weapons back into the bag and slid it across to me._

_“He is very good man, you know. Crazy, but good. How you say,_ _khaoticheskoye blago.”_

_“I take it that’s a compliment.” Standing up and slinging the bag over my shoulder, I almost fell over under its impressive weight. He let out a deep, bellowing laugh, either at my comment or my poorly-concealed stumbling. “After I take care of the guy, how do I get the bounty?”_

_“You come back to me, we celebrate, and money is wired wherever you want, no problem.”_

_“Sounds good.” I made my way to the door, beginning to wonder how exactly I’d fit a metric shit-ton of arms in the saddlebags of my bike._

_“Udachi, comrade!” The bottle at his lips audibly glugged behind me. “Happy hunting.”_

* * *

            The aftermath of the showdown was quite possibly the most awkward experience I’d ever endured. Obviously, Leo couldn’t stay with Karai after fighting with her and mangling her hand, so he’d hastily packed up everything he considered worth taking, and bid his brother to do the same. I was still far too woozy to safely ride the bike back home; my arms and legs felt normal again, but between getting domed with the butt of a gun, and hanging upside-down for a couple hours, it felt like my brain had been left on the subway tracks. With a wholesome composure in his tone, Leo offered to drop me off. The guy’s decorum never failed to startle me; as if he were setting off on some family camping trip, he led us down the hall with a backpack, suitcase, and gym bag in tow, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before passing through the living room without so much as a glance toward the glass littered across the floor or the corpses just outside.

            “Don’t forget your belongings.” Don reminded me nonchalantly. I eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before finding my little weapons cache on the couch, the Bizon lying next to it with its magazine and suppressor separated. The kid was carrying a whole lot more than his brother; in his arms, he had bags of books, multiple computers, an oversized rolling suitcase, and two backpacks, along with the wooden staff I’d seen him swinging around when Mike was over. I had to wonder exactly what was going through his mind; the way Leo had explained it, I was under the impression he’d have left Don in the dark about any of his criminal ties. Then again, I’d thought I did the same to Mike. When everything was zipped up and out of view, I followed the brothers down the hall and out into the elevator.

            The three of us were silent all the way down to the parking garage, and once inside the Lexus, we remained the same way as we pulled out onto the street.

            “You, uh…” I piped up, almost suffocated by the tension. “Mind if I put on some music?”

            “Donnie doesn’t like music in the car.” Leo uttered calmly.

            “It’s fine.” Don spoke up from the back seat, sticking his head over the bags he’d piled on his lap. Without taking his eyes off the road, Leo fiddled with the touchscreen in the console, and a tranquil jazzy instrumental, similar to what he’d put on in his tai chi class, began to play an almost imperceptibly low volume. It was soothing, but a jarring contrast compared to the savagery I’d witnessed mere minutes before.

            “Where’re you guys gonna go?” I asked as we waited at the stoplight.

            “A hotel, I guess.” Leo muttered as the light turned green, and he steadily rounded the corner onto FDR Drive. “Any recommendations?”

            “The ones still checking in this late ain’t the kinda places you wanna stay.” I scoffed. “Could crash at my place, if you want. It’s the least I can do after…all that.”

            “Oh, thank you, but…” He stammered beside me. “I wouldn’t want to impose, and…”

            “Don’t worry about it. Plus, the kids can walk to school together in the morning. Might be nice.”

            “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

            As we passed under the Gracie Mansion tunnel, I tried to let the mellow music wash over me, to forget about the impossibility of the situation I’d thrown myself into. From the moment he chopped his cousin’s finger off, Leo had gone back to his polite, serene self, and it almost angered me how flawlessly he was able to keep that mask up. Was he angry with me? Was he scared? Was he as confused as I was? He’d just packed up his entire life into a few bags and was on his way to an unfamiliar place, a feeling I knew all too well. Given, he’d said he’d moved around a lot too, but I imagined going from penthouse to penthouse was a bit different than hurriedly throwing some shit together and bailing to crash in a modest East Harlem flat. I had to wonder what his plan was, if he had one at all.

            After a relatively short drive, we fortunately found a free spot on the street outside my building, and made our way inside. I offered to help Don take some of his many bags up the narrow stairwell, but he insisted on carrying everything himself, as did Leo.

            “Sorry about the mess.” I offered sheepishly as I opened the door. “Ain’t usually got guests coming around.” Rounding the corner, I found Mike splayed out on the couch, empty pizza box on his lap and Klunk curled up at his feet. The TV flickered with the lobby of his shoot-em-up game, his already ridiculous avatar wearing some stupid pink bunny costume. Upon sensing our presences in the room, Klunk let out a silent yawn and stretched his paws out, the subtle motion stirring Mike from his sleep.

            “Huh, what’s…” He mumbled, wiping the crumbs and sauce from his mouth as his eyelids fluttered open.

            “Get up, dingus. We got company, and I gotta use the pull-out couch.”

            “The fuck?” He rubbed at his eyes as they registered Don and Leo standing before him, the former scratching at Klunk’s chin as the cat rubbed against his leg. “Bro, I don’t even…”

            “We can talk about it in the morning. Just go to bed.”

            “Whatever, dude.” Like a zombie, he peeled himself off the cushions and trudged toward his room, Klunk diverting his attention from Don and following close behind.

            After a while figuring out how exactly the bed beneath the couch was supposed to be set up, I was about to offer an apology about having no sheets before Don had retrieved a lilac set of linens from one of his bags, sizing them up and deeming them acceptable to use on the dingy mattress. Finding an air mattress in the hall closet, I offered to blow it up for Leo, but he gracefully refused, snatching it from my hands and setting out to unravel the thing and find its plug. At that point, I became aware of the smokes still in my jacket pocket, and excused myself to clear my head for the first time all night.

            Out on the balcony, I had barely begun to mull over the events of the evening when I heard the door slide open behind me.

            “Mind if I join you?” Leo’s voice snapped me from my trance.

            “Didn’t take you for a smoker.” I chuckled.

            “I’m not. Just wanted to apologize.” He strode over beside me, leaning on the railing. “What I did wasn’t right.”

            “What _you_ did?” I scoffed, turning to see him staring wistfully down at the street below us. “I just busted into your place to kill you, and got you kicked out. If anything, I should…”

            “I meant kissing you.” He sighed. “What you did, or set out to do, is completely understandable. You thought I had deceived you, put your brother in danger, forced myself on you, and killed your friend when you rejected me. For all of that, I’m truly sorry.”

            “Leatherhead ain’t dead, you know.” I offered. “Ol’ bastard’s tougher to kill than he seems. A little worse for wear, yeah, but he’s safe at home by now.”

            “Thank god.” He half-whispered with relief. “I honestly had no idea that was how Karai and Uncle handled these matters. It might be the family business, sure, but actually being at the helm of the day-to-day affairs is still entirely new to me. This might sound stupid to you, but the way my father used to describe what he did, he made it sound…honorable, I guess. More honorable than blowing up his opponents and taking out innocents in the process.”

            “Always on about your honor.” I smirked. “Nah, I think I get it.”

            “Anyways, Leatherhead’s survival still doesn’t justify my actions. When you came over to take Mike home, I figured it would be the last time I ever saw you. And I thought…Well, I guess I didn’t think, really. I acted on impulse.” He shied away from my wondering gaze. “For whatever reason, I imagined there was some kind of chemistry between us, and like a fool, I jumped on my last chance to make something happen without even considering how you actually felt. And this isn’t an excuse, but there are a lot of…urges, that I’ve had to repress over the years. Feelings that would bring great shame to my clan, make us look vulnerable. I mean, I’m already the black sheep of the family. Literally.”

            He gestured to himself, letting a hearty laugh escape his lips, one contagious enough to set me snickering.

            “You’re a good guy, Leo.” Out here in the darkness, his face barely illuminated by the streetlights, I could register that his cordial mask had disappeared. It its place, he bore worry and shame, alongside the same vulnerability he’d been trained to conceal. Though he was taller than me when standing up straight, he seemed so small, so delicate as he poured his heart out and made mine hungrily ache.

            “Thank you.” A warm smile came my way, making my stomach churn. “It’s been a long day. I should make sure Donnie’s all settled, and try to get some rest.”

            “Wait.” In one slick move, I flicked my cigarette down to the street, and grabbed his wrist just as he stepped to open the door. He looked at me, pools of cerulean filled to the brim with nervous curiosity, and I opened my mouth to say something, but not even a dictionary could help me put together what I needed him to hear. With my jaw agape, I hesitated for a second, before closing the gap between us and deftly pressing my mouth against his. This time, it was his turn to tense up, but after a moment, he seemed to melt like putty in my grasp, his succulent lips granting my tongue permission to venture inside.

            If the Leo in my dreams had been an embodiment of dominance, the Leo of flesh submitting to my every ministration in my arms was a refreshing surprise. Pulling away for a breath, I let my teeth rake slowly against his bottom lip, giving it a gentle tug.

            “You ain’t the only guy in the world with ‘urges’ to deal with, you know.” I whispered coarsely, with a smug grin. “And that air mattress looks kinda uncomfortable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GET READY FOR SOME REAL SMUT YA FILTHY ANIMALS!!!
> 
> Finally, right? Only took me, what, 40k words to finally hook our boys up? Here's hoping it was worth it!
> 
> And if you came for the action and drama, don't you fret none, cause there's a hell of a lot more where that came from!
> 
> I pored over the dialogue in the last section a kajillion times, rearranging and editing until it flowed as naturally as 'hey you wanted to kill me but I just wounded my cousin instead and now let's get some fucc' possibly can, but at some points it does still seem tedious to me. As always, if you have any suggestions to improve it, do drop me a comment!
> 
> A little spiel for those of you who don’t binge yakuza movies like myself: why did Leo cut the tip of Karai’s little finger off? It’s a widely-known ritual among yakuza, called yubitsume (literally ‘finger-shortening’). Typically, if a subordinate does something worthy of punishment, they will perform the ritual and offer their fingertip to their superior as a form of penance. The design has to do with how one holds a sword; without their whole little finger, their grip is weaker, and thus they must rely on the ‘family’ more for their own protection. In this case, Leo does it to Karai, despite the fact that she is the ‘oyabun’ and he is the ‘kobun’ in this context, so he’s turning the nature of the ritual on its head. You can interpret that in a number of ways, but I figured an explanation might be in order for any of you who are like “wtf was that for?”
> 
> Japanese:
> 
> Haijin = disabled person (literally ‘scrap’ so I imagine it’s offensive)
> 
> Itoko = cousin
> 
> Oyabun = superior (literally ‘foster parent’, but used to denote rank in a yakuza organization)
> 
> Kokujin = black man
> 
> Baka = idiot, imbecile
> 
> Masaka son'na koto wa shinaidarou! = You wouldn’t dare! (literally ‘you will not do such a thing!’)
> 
> Watashi wa matteimasu. Anata no chichioya ni tsugeru. = I will be waiting. Tell your father.
> 
> Russian:
> 
> Otets = father (alternately ‘governor’, as in ‘guardian’)
> 
> Umnik = nerd, egghead, smart-aleck
> 
> Konechno = of course
> 
> Okhotnik za golovami = bounty hunter (literally ‘hunter of heads’)
> 
> Otlichno = perfect
> 
> Khaoticheskoye blago = chaotic good
> 
> Udachi = good luck
> 
> I had real, genuine Russian friends double-check Steranko's dialogue for me, to get it as authentic as possible! God only knows what a bunch of straight frat bros from Brighton Beach will think if they look up the story and find out their boy has been obsessively churning out gay fan fiction for the last month lmaoooooo (if you're reading this Ilya, first of all spasibo, secondly you knew what you were getting into honey I certainly don't write het no more!)
> 
> Thank you so very much for putting up with my nonsense and continuing to read this absolute monster of a fic! Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks are the flame beneath my fingers that keeps me typing!


	10. Chapter 10

            I wish I could say the rest of the night went like a storybook, with me scooping Leo up in my arms like a damsel in distress, whisking him into the bedroom, and having my way with him over and over until the sun came up. Unfortunately, that’s not what reality held in the cards. Tiptoeing inside, he made his way over to Don, who was engrossed in the light of his laptop screen while bundled tightly in his blankets on the mattress. Once he was assured that everything was to his brother’s liking, I cupped my ear to Mike’s door to listen for the steady rhythm of his breathing, satisfied that he was out like a light. Reminding myself quickly before heading into my room, I snatched the gym bag full of guns off the kitchen table and beckoned for Leo to come in as I heaved it into the corner of the room.

            Flopping down onto the mattress, I stretched across the scarlet sheets to flick on the box fan I kept by the bedside, hoping a little white noise might give us the illusion of privacy in such a thin-walled apartment. There were certain details about bringing a hookup back to my place that I’d never had the opportunity to flesh out until tonight, but I was more than eager to learn. Leo entered the room with an enthusiastic, wide-eyed smile plastered across his face, setting his bags down neatly at the foot of the bed and gently shutting the door behind him.

            “I should be honest with you.” He murmured, shimmying his way across the mattress to sit beside me. “I’ve never really done anything like this before, so if I…”

            “Ain’t got much to compare it to either.” I soothed, grabbing onto his bicep and leaning in to savor the taste of his lips again. He countered with a bit more energy of his own, wrapping his hand around the back of my head and pulling me in closer. In this proximity, I could sense the heat radiating from his chest, and feel the pulse in his veins racing beneath my fingers. Leo seemed so full of life, his sinewy cords of muscle practically twitching with anxious energy as I let my free palm plant on his chest and slide down his flank. Toward his hips, I inadvertently brushed against the plastic bandage he’d hastily put over his sword wound before leaving his apartment, and felt the hiss of a wince between his teeth as I pulled away.

            “Shit, my bad.” I mumbled, snapping my hands off his body.

            “It’s okay.” He sighed, taking his fingers and tangling them between mine on the mattress. I dove back in, kissing him more gently this time, but slowly pressing forward until Leo’s head met the pillows behind him, and I climbed atop him like a lion feasting on its prey. His hand wandered from my waist upward, underneath my shirt, until it studied the hair of my chest with curiosity, tenderly stroking back and forth. Breaking my seal on his lips, I let my kisses travel down his jawline until I found myself at his earlobe, giving it a playful nip. At that, he let out a hushed gasp, and I could feel him tremble beneath me.

            “You good?” I breathed raspily into his ear, watching the muscles in his neck tense as the hot air hit him.

            “Mmhmm.” His eyes were screwed tightly shut. “Just…sensitive.”

            “Not a bad thing.” I purred, giving a lewd lick up the side of his neck and delicately rolling the lobe of his ear in my teeth. The magnitude of his shuddering intensified, and a low, needy moan escaped his lips. Only further encouraged by his sounds, I marked a trail of kisses and bites down his throat, becoming lost in the rumbling vibrations beneath his Adam’s apple as more enraptured noises erupted from within him. Reaching the base of his neck, I peeled myself off him and tugged the hem of his shirt up roughly. He raised his arms to let it come off, and as I tossed the fabric to the floor, I found myself wondering how anyone could ever do this with the lights off. Hungrily taking in every inch of his smooth mocha skin, his taut abs rising and falling with every breath, his bottomless ocean eyes bearing lustful wonder, and his soft lips barely agape in a subtle pout, I thought that I could stay frozen in that moment for the rest of my life, and still die a happy man.

            My hypnosis came to an end as Leo mirrored my movements, gently pulling my shirt over my head and letting it fall to the carpet before grabbing ahold of my waist and pulling me back toward him. The contact of his skin against mine could only be described as electric, but a growing pressure below my belt made it clear that it wasn’t nearly enough. Not wanting to rush him into anything, I possessively crashed my mouth against his, and after a while, resumed my slow path downward. Finding a spot to nibble in the hollow of his collar bone that made his breath hitch in his windpipe, I rolled back onto my knees to continue my descent. I laid a string of tender kisses down the supple surface of his chest, until my lips reached his nipple, and I tweaked it ever so slightly in my bite as a sharp whine resounded through the room. On instinct, my gaze shot upward to see him gnawing on his bottom lip, eyebrows knit.

            “Too much?” I asked. Peering down, his hands were gripping the sheets, balled up into tight fists.

            “Do that again.” He begged, maintaining the same expression. I certainly didn’t need to be told twice; a devious smirk crawled across my face as I lowered my mouth to the other side of his chest and repeated the same treatment. If I could have captured the cry of equal parts pain and ecstasy that left his lips at that moment, and set it as an alarm clock, I’d have no issues getting out of bed ever again.

            “Gonna wake the kids up.” I chuckled.

            “Sorry.” He mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck and looking away with a bashful grin. Taking the opportunity to sit upright, I found my fingers gravitating toward his belt buckle and fumbling with the zipper of his jeans while my lips reunited with his. In a moment, my hands found their prize: the silky, stretchy fabric of his turquoise trunks, tented by the warm, throbbing manhood inside. I planted my palm on his organ, letting my thumb rest on where its bulbous head made an impression. Gently stroking it up and down, I felt Leo’s breath become more hurried and ragged as it puffed out his nostrils, and his heartbeat began to race at an even faster tempo. Letting my free hand plant on his waist, I broke our kiss, thinking to ask if everything was okay, but I was cut off by a throaty groan and a tensed, shivering body in my grip. Suddenly, his underwear was dampened by spurt after spurt of spunk, the thick, musky fluid soaking through the cloth onto my fingers. At first, I thought it might just be pre-cum, albeit a whole lot of it, but as his muscles relaxed and he let out a contented sigh, my suspicion was confirmed.

            “Ain’t kidding about being sensitive, huh?” I snickered, flopping onto the mattress beside him and shooting him a smirk while trying to ignore my own pulsing need.

            “I’m really sorry…I just…” He looked genuinely ashamed of himself. I poked a finger up under his chin to bring his face toward mine, planting a brief, gentle peck on his lips.

            “You _gotta_ stop apologizing all the time.” I teased. “Besides…it was kinda hot.”

            Peeling myself off the sheets, I sauntered over to the closet and pulled out a towel for him.

            “I can, uh…” He stammered, accepting the soft fabric from my hands as I sat back down on the bed. “Help you out, if…”

            “I’ll live.” I raised a palm, cutting him off. Obviously, I’d love to get off, but something about taking care of him while asking nothing in return added to the warm feeling in my heart. To have the man who’d first struck me as an embodiment of confidence and fearlessness turn into a clumsy, vulnerable, inexperienced lover at my touch made me feel like some kind of magician, and I didn’t want to abuse that power. Instead, I watched him soak in the glory of his afterglow and catch his breath, until he had fully returned to the world of the living. The little show he gave when stripping off the rest of his clothes and wiping himself down tested my resolve, but the choice still felt right as he pulled on a set of pajamas and curled up alongside me in bed. I snaked an arm around his waist, wrapping him tight against me and laying a kiss on the back of his neck.

            “So when you said you never did nothing like that before…” I muttered. “You mean you ain’t kissed anyone?”

            “A childhood friend, once, but…That’s about it.” He admitted meekly. “Was it obvious?”

            “Pretty good for a rookie.” I snickered, letting my fingers tease under the waistband of his satiny pants. “Just gotta work on building up a little more stamina.”

            “Mmm.” He seemed to catch himself before letting out another ‘sorry’. In response, I pulled him in even closer, letting our legs intertwine and savoring the sensation of having a living, breathing body so close to mine that we practically shared a heartbeat. It was the kind of contact I’d been waiting damn near my whole life to experience, and my head was still caught in the surreality that it was no longer a fantasy.

            “What about you?” He uttered softly, stirring me from my blissful state.

            “Huh? Oh…I mean, I fooled around with some girls back in the day. Kissed a guy once. But nothing serious; never went all the way or anything.”

            “Could have fooled me.” He chuckled. “You know what you’re doing.”

            “Don’t mind teaching you, if you wanna stick around for a few more nights.” I ground my hips forward into his rear for emphasis.

            “That’s very kind of you, but…I’m not sure what my plan is.” He sighed. “Everything just happened so fast. I have to think about what to do with Donnie, and…”

            “Whatever you gotta do, I wanna help you.” I offered. “Figure it’s kinda my fault you guys are out on your own.”

            “Tonight might have been the spark, but my family’s been a powder keg for years now. Let’s just say my cousin and I never really saw eye-to-eye. Let alone my uncle.” He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Who I am _not_ looking forward to seeing again.”

            “I’ve lived with some assholes over the years.” I commiserated thoughtfully. “Trust me, you’re better off without ‘em.”

            “Oroku Saki isn’t the kind of man who lets his enemies disappear. After what I did to Karai, he’ll want to handle this himself. And knowing now what he did to my father…he won’t stop at anything.”

            “What happened?”

            “I don’t know what to believe anymore, honestly. I was seventeen at the time, and he and my stepmother were away in Hong Kong on business. The day they were supposed to come back…We got a call saying there had been a crash on the drive home. Malfunctioning brakes.” I watched his fist tense around the blankets. “What Karai told me suggests it wasn’t an accident. My uncle wanted control of the clan, and he had until my eighteenth birthday to make sure it didn’t pass to me.”

            “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say; sure, my life was a sob story too, but fratricide was heavier shit than I knew how to deal with. Short on words, I let my hand snugly grasp the back of his, and felt his grip relax beneath mine.

            “It’s alright. I’d rather know the truth than let him continue lying, and it’s time to claim what’s rightfully mine.”

            “I got your back.” I let my thumb wrap around and stroke his palm tenderly. “The Purple Dragons and I got a lifetime of bad blood, and if your uncle’s the one running their show, then I wanna take him down with you.”

            “It won’t be easy. If Karai was a difficult opponent, keep in mind she learned everything she knows from him.”

            “Then I guess you got some stuff to teach me too.”

 

* * *

 

            “Okay, dude. The beans. Spill ‘em.” Maybe putting off explaining everything to Mike until the morning hadn’t been such a good idea. He caught me off-guard on the balcony, still taking in my morning coffee and cigarette, and my brain was just barely beginning to kick into gear.

            “What do you wanna know?”

            “Uh…Everything?” He stepped between the railing and me, blocking my view to the street with his interrogative stare. “You could start with you telling me that Leo was trash a few days ago, and maybe end with those sounds I heard coming from your room last night.”

            “Thought you were asleep.” I winced, cursing myself internally.

            “Years of practice with you sneaking out, bro.” He grinned deviously. “Kinda wish I was though. He’s…vocal, ain’t he?”

            “Yeah, I guess…” I grunted, feeling a blush start to creep across my cheeks. “Wait, you ain’t…surprised, or nothing?”

            “I’m surprised about a lot of shit, Raph. But that’s the part I’m least worried about. Now, dish.”

            “Fine.” I sighed, tapping a bit of ash off the end of my cigarette and letting it drift down to the floor. Trying to concisely fit the previous night’s events into a sound bite he could understand, I took careful pains to describe my reason for coming after Leo as a yakuza attack on ‘an old friend’, and nothing more. If Van Leer ever wanted to come clean about his past the way I had, that was on him; I wouldn’t be the one to tarnish Mike’s image of him. When my tale got to the point where I brought Leo and Don back to the apartment, I figured I’d given as good of an explanation as I possibly could.

            “And then?” He prodded.

            “Oh, c’mon, I don’t gotta explain the next part, do I?”

            “I mean, I don’t need the details.” He coyly smirked. “Just…damn. That’s the one secret you were actually as good at keeping as you thought you were.”

            “I’m flattered.” I grumbled. “Now, you gonna keep interrogating me, or you plan on getting to school on time?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” He groaned, turning to the door. “Just…Next time, maybe you dudes can wait ‘til I’m out of the house?”

            “I’m the one paying rent, numbnuts!” I hollered out as he slid the glass door shut behind him.

            Left in solitude once more, I savored my last few sips and drags reflecting on how nonchalantly he’d taken the news. There was no promise he wouldn’t crack jokes at my expense, and no outright approval or congratulations, but none of that would have been in Mike’s nature regardless. He was unfazed, and perhaps with an even greater magnitude than when I’d told Casey and April, it felt like an oppressive, ever-present weight had been lifted from my shoulders. What’s more, I wasn’t just _theoretically_ gay anymore; I’d bedded a man, and despite the experience not going as planned, I enjoyed it. In a world full of people eager to call that act unnatural, it had felt so completely instinctual to me.

            There wouldn’t be time for another round that morning, at least not a long one. Once Leo made sure Don was all prepared for the school day, he’d set off on a jog around the neighborhood. It was a morning ritual of his, apparently, and his way of getting a chance to see bits and pieces of the city he called his new home. Of course, a run around East Harlem is a universe apart from a run around Yorkville, so I prayed his route took him west through Central Park, rather than bringing him anywhere near Jefferson Park or any other questionable turf. That’s not to suggest I didn’t have faith he could handle himself, should anything have gone south, but even a martial arts master can’t always come out on top against a hood rat with a gun.

            When I’d gotten my coveralls on, and was in the process of suiting up in my bike gear, a sweat-drenched slab of muscle and energy came sauntering in through the front door.

            “You never told me what a beautiful neighborhood you lived in! I passed this marvelous statue of Duke Ellington.” He panted cheerfully, making his way to the sink to fill up his water bottle. “And the Africa Center – such a unique design! I’d love to check it out once it opens.”

            “Hope you don’t mind waiting. The place has been sitting half-finished for about four years now.” I couldn’t help but find humor in his impression of my hood. I’d been stuck in it for ages, and never once stopped to consider something in it as ‘beautiful’ or ‘marvelous’. To me, it was just Harlem, each block like a checkerboard in an all-encompassing game between rival factions and innocent bystanders. Leave it to a complete outsider to find beauty in the mundane.

            “That’s a shame.” He sucked down a few hearty gulps, before wiping his mouth with a satisfied sigh. “African culture is very interesting. In many ways, the opposite of what life was like in Japan, and yet in others, so similar.”

            “I don’t think I learned shit about either in high school.” I mused, tying my boots. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

            “Of course.” He pulled out the chair across the table from me and sat down.

            “How much does Don know? About, I dunno, the ‘family business’?”

            “Hmm. Honestly, I’m not sure.” He admitted. “He’s familiar with the ins and outs of the legitimate end, I know that. But I’ve never spoken to him about what goes on under the table, and I don’t think our father did either. And I _know_ Uncle didn’t tell him anything.”

            “So how’d you get him to leave last night?” My mind flashed back to the hurried discussion they’d had in Japanese the previous evening while I stood over Karai, making sure she was thoroughly unconscious and stretching out my battered body.

            “The truth: Karai and I had a disagreement, and we weren’t going to live together anymore. He was never her biggest fan anyways.”

            “But the bodies…”

            “He didn’t ask. I find that if he wants to know something, he’ll usually figure it out on his own.”

            “So, the opposite of Mike, then.” I chuckled, popping up from my chair and sliding into my jacket. “Kid just made me explain everything.”

            “Everything? Even…”

            “I guess we were a little louder than we thought.” I admitted sheepishly.

            “If your brother heard us, that means Donnie _definitely_ did.”

            “Is that a problem?”

            “It’s…Again, he’s never really asked me about anything like that. But what he must be thinking right now…” He wrung his hands, hanging his head.

            “Shh.” I soothed, gently grasping his chin and stooping down to lay a brief peck on his mouth. “You ain’t done nothing wrong. We’ll figure it out.”

            “Thanks.” His tense mood seemed to mellow a bit at that, but as I went to the closet and grabbed my helmet, another thought that might further lift his spirits reentered my mind.

            “How about I officially re-invite you out to dinner tonight?” I poked my head around the corner. “Still wanna check out that Donguri place.”

            “It’s a date.” He beamed.

 

* * *

 

            I seemed to float through the rest of my day, hardly noting my lack of grumbling at the traffic heading downtown. On arriving at the garage, Casey asked about the swollen bruise Karai had inflicted on the side of my face, and I realized that I’d completely ignored it in the process of getting ready for work. Clumsily, I wrote it off as a mishap training at the gym, and he appeared to take that at face value. Neither his teasing at my expense, nor the pulsing ache of my injury that reappeared when I became aware of it, could shake me from my good mood. This kind of blissful intoxication, I thought, was something I’d forced myself to miss out on my entire life, and now that I relented, it was hitting me in full force. The rest of my shift breezed by, and while I remembered to make reservations for four at the restaurant, I doubt I’d have been able to tell you my own name with how absent-minded of a state I was in.

            When the workday came to a close, and a short ride placed me in a quiet neck of the Upper East Side, I realized having my head in the clouds all day had left me unprepared for what I’d been looking forward to. I pulled in behind the familiar black Lexus, and Leo, Don, and Mike stepped out dressed in button-downs, neckties, and slacks.

            “Dude, if Raph doesn’t have to get strangled like this, why do I?” Mike protested, yanking at the knot of the vibrant orange tie he’d worn to prom the previous year.

            “Just ‘cause I’m an idiot doesn’t mean you get a free pass.” I chided.

            Stepping inside, the first thing to strike me was how small and plain the place was. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen tables, and without any music piped in, the only noise in the brick-walled room came from patrons, either in the form of subdued chatter or the sounds of eating. Given the appearance, I began to wonder if the reviews I’d read online had deceived me, but after Leo spoke to the host in their native tongue and we were seated with menus, the prices marked therein all but confirmed the place was secretly swanky.

            “What would you like to drink?” Leo asked as my eyes pored over the selection.

            “Was gonna say sake, but…sheesh! Twenty-five bucks for a glass?”

            “Don’t worry about it.” He waved a palm to me across the table. “Any particular preference? I’ve heard _Nanbu Bijin_ is very good.”

            “Uh-uh, no way.” I insisted. “I said I was taking _you_ out, not the other way around.”

            Before I could continue to object, Leo leaned in toward the waiter and muttered something in Japanese, the words ‘ _Nanbu Bijin_ ’ just barely decipherable as he pointed his thumb toward me.

            “Aight, what do they have here that’s _not_ gross?” Mike inquired as he looked at the menu with a grimace. “I’m seeing a lot of stuff like sea urchins, squid, and…oh god, I don’t even know what a monkfish is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t wanna eat its liver.”

            “Have you ever heard of Wagyu steak?” Leo tapped at the bottom of his entrees section.

            “Uh…I mean, I’ve heard of steak! What makes it different; they don’t cover it in slimy seaweed or little fish eggs, do they?”

            “Wagyu refers to a grouping of four cattle breeds native to Japan.” Don rattled off. “This restaurant uses Miyazaki Wagyu, meaning it’s of the _Kuroge Washu_ breed. Wagyu is particularly known for the marbling pattern of fat deposits in the meat, along with a higher ratio of omega-3 and omega-6 fatty acids in its nutritional content.”

            Don produced his cellphone from his pocket, and after a brief flurry of typing, tilted the screen toward Mike. His eyes lit up like fireworks, and he practically started drooling onto the table.

            “Dude…That shit looks like red velvet cake! But meat!” He swooned, dramatically slumping back in his seat. “How is it only fifteen bucks?”

            “That’s fifteen _per ounce_ , numbskull.” I corrected, examining my own menu. “This place ain’t Outback, that’s for sure.”

            Our waiter returned with a carafe of sake and a small porcelain kettle of tea, along with a dish of lightly fried shrimp, still shelled and almost looking half-alive.

            “Complimentary _ebi furai_?” Leo smiled to the waiter. “ _Arigato._ ”

            He ordered for the whole table, asking me what I’d like after covering himself and the other two.

            “Uh…Surprise me.” I folded my menu shut. “Can’t say I’ve really had sashimi before. Just get me something that won’t kill me, I guess.”

            “Everything but _fugu_ , then.” He laughed, completing the order and handing the waiter our menus. I watched as Leo grabbed the teapot and carefully poured the steaming green liquid into two cups, before passing it to Don and allowing him to pour Leo’s. That kind of ettiquite was something I’d seen in samurai flicks before, but never knew to be carried on in real life.

            “What, no sake?” I asked as he picked up his cup and blew some of the steam off. “You can’t expect me to finish off this whole thing myself!”

            “Thank you, but I don’t drink.” He muttered pleasantly before taking a cautious sip. That elicited a curious glance from both myself and Mike.

            “You mean, like, never?” Mike gawked.

            “Not once.” Leo set his cup down, breathing a satisfied sigh.

            “How old are you, dude?”

            “Twenty-four. Why?”

            “You’ve been legal for four years, and you ain’t even tried one beer?” I prodded

            “Six years.” Don corrected. “We were living in Brazil when he turned eighteen, which is the legal purchasing age there.”

            “That’s even weirder!” Mike blurted with incredulity. “Are you some kinda Puritan or something?”

            “Nope. Buddhist.” He explained. “The Fifth Precept states to refrain from intoxicating drinks and drugs, which lead to carelessness.”

            “The _Vinaya Pitaka_ does permit consumption of intoxicants when medically necessary.” Don added.

            “Of course, what’s medically necessary is always open to interpretation.” Leo countered, before turning to me. “When Donnie was still in our uncle’s custody, he was sent to a school…”

            “The Tateyama Center for the Mentally and Physically Handicapped.” Don noted soberly. “Not a school.”

            “A facility, where that was their justification for using medicine that…Well, it wasn’t necessary.”

            “Your uncle sounds as bad as the Caliguri’s.” Mike sympathized. “It took Doctor V, like, one week to figure out the Adderall they had me on was causing more trouble than it was worth. Shit was like crack.”

            “Have you ever tried meditation?” Leo inquired. “Finding a quiet place and calming yourself naturally can accomplish so much more than a pill ever could.”

            “I think the issue would be getting him to sit in one place long enough to try it.” I chuckled. “Without a TV or a blunt in front of him, that is.”

            “A blunt?” Leo raised an eyebrow curiously.

            “ _Taima_.” Don explained, and his brother’s eyes shot wide open.

            “Ah.” He uttered. “Really? You seem awfully young to be using that stuff.”

            “Dude!” Mike giggled. “Take a walk through Central Park right around now, and I guarantee you’ll find some middle-schoolers blazing somewhere, if you follow your nose.”

            “They do it right in the open? It’s illegal!”

            “Welcome to New York.” I shook my head. “Cops usually got more important shit to worry about than some punks smoking a joint.”

            “At least, if you’re white.” Mike snorted.

            “I guess some things are the same everywhere, then.” Leo sighed. “The only place I’ve been where I didn’t attract attention was Mozambique, and even there, only until someone came up expecting me to speak the local language.”

            “ _Não é difícil, se você praticar._ ” Don chided.

            “Bro, did someone install Google Translate in your brain?” Mike commented, flabbergasted. “Just how many languages do you speak?”

            “Just Japanese, English, Gaelic, Mandarin, and Portuguese.” He stated. “And Scots, if you consider it a proper language, rather than a bastardization of English.”

            “No idea how you’re still in high school, dude.” Mike snickered. “What about you, Leo?”

            “Really, only Japanese and English.” He admitted. “My Chinese is okay, but I’m certainly not fluent. And my mother taught me little bits and pieces of Portuguese and Swahili, but…Neither stuck, I guess. I was very young when she passed.”

            “Same reason I don’t speak a lick of Spanish.” I grunted, taking a sip of the bitter liquid in my glass. “Pops disappeared back to the DR almost as quick as he came.”

            “No-parents squad!” Mike raised his cup humorously. “It might be too late for Raph and I to make anything of ourselves, but you two are set to prove ‘em all wrong!”

            Begrudgingly cracking a smile, I clinked my glass against his, and Leo and Don followed suit. The rest of our conversation was relatively lighthearted and pleasant, touching on what the kids had learned in school, how work was going at the garage, and other mundane trivialities. Mike told me Van Leer had a substitute teaching his class that day, which didn’t surprise me, given the state he’d been in when I found him the night before.

            Part of me wanted to try and get ahold of him, to check in and make sure he was alright, but as I mulled it over, the arrival of our food distracted me. My plate was adorned with a myriad of slices of raw fish, all of which Don could name the species just by looking, arranged in an elegant floral pattern. Truth be told, it didn’t really matter to me what kind of fish it came from; all I knew was that it tasted incredible. A dab of wasabi, a pour of soy sauce, and a sip of sake between bites made everything even better, and from the looks of it, the others enjoyed their dishes just as much. By the time dessert came, some kind of ice cream infused with green tea powder, I doubted I could eat another bite.

            “So, what’s the verdict?” I asked as Leo handed the waiter the check. “As good as it is back in Japan?”

            “The mandatory freezing process that raw seafood has to undergo to be sold legally in the US does contribute to a slight loss of flavor.” Don examined the melted remains of his ice cream studiously. “Although the premium quality of the cuts seemed to make up for it, at least partially. Overall, I would rank it somewhere between Sushi Yoshitake and Ryugin.”

            “I agree.” Leo elaborated with confidence. “And those are both Michelin-starred restaurants, for what it’s worth. I’d love to come back soon.”

            “The price tag don’t scare you away?” I teased. “Bet it’d be cheaper to ride out to Montauk, rent a boat, and catch the fish ourselves.”

            “Let me know when you have a free weekend.” He countered playfully. “I’m sure we could work something…”

            In the most discreet of manners, the waiter reappeared next to Leo, muttering something hushed as he slid the check back onto the table. He nodded curtly in response, reopening the little black book and eyeing it nervously.

            “Something wrong?” I kept my voice low.

            “There was an issue with my card…” He mumbled, and I swore that despite his dark complexion, a blush could be seen creeping across his cheeks. “Karai manages our accounts, and I guess…”

            “I told ya, _I’m_ taking _you_ out.” I boasted, internally grieving at the death of my credit card balance as I slid it into the book, but carefully keeping up the façade. “I think I know a way you can pick up the tab next time.”

            Once I paid, I bid the three of them farewell as they piled into the sedan, and pulled my helmet out from the saddlebag of my bike. Before sliding it on, though, my hand dipped into my pocket and retrieved my phone. Quickly finding the last message I’d received from Van Leer, I started typing a new one.

            “ _Still got a way to contact Steranko?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, ladies and gents, this took waaay longer than expected! Not to make it sound like I’m running out of steam here, but the frantic pace I started this piece with is slowly petering out to a more reasonable one. I hope you don’t mind!
> 
> Just for fun, I thought it’d shed a little light on how I imagine the characters’ appearances by citing some real-world examples. 
> 
> Leonardo - Anderson Paak, but with blue eyes (the trait is a stretch for someone of Japanese/Swahili descent, but seeing as some of the Swahili claim Shirazi (Persian) descent, and the Portuguese colonized Mozambique for like 400 years, it’s entirely possible that his mother would have blue eyes)
> 
> Raphael - Roberto Luongo, but with green eyes, mid-to-late-20s (first stint in Florida, probably) (to be fair, Bobby Lu is 100% Italian, but of dark enough a complexion that he could pass as part-Hispanic)
> 
> Donatello - Justin Nozuka (buzz cut era, not man-bun era)
> 
> Michelangelo - Dougie Hamilton, pre-beard, with shaggier hair (think early in his tenure with the Bruins)
> 
> In this chapter, the Japanese should be interpretable by context, and most of it refers to food and drink anyways.
> 
> Portuguese:
> 
> Não é difícil, se você praticar = It isn’t hard, if you practice.
> 
> I may split my efforts between this and a Leo-centric, non-AU piece that’s more focused on smut and less so on action (working title is ‘Firstborn’, unrelated to my Raph-centric lemon ‘Secondborn’, and don’t y’all dare steal it) so updates might not be as frequent as they previously were. Check out my page to see what else I’m cooking up!
> 
> Thank you to all readers, and extra thanks to those who comment and kudos!


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